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OTHER  BOOKS  BY 
GILBERT  PARKER 


Novels  and  Tales 
Pierre  and  His  People 
Mrs.  Falchion 
The  Trespasser 
The  Translation  of  a  Savage 
The  Trail  of  the  Sword 
When  Valmond  came  to  Pontiac 
The  Seats  of  the  Mighty 
An  Adventurer  of  the  North 
The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 
The  Battle  of  the  Strong 
The  Lane  that  Had  no  Turning 
The  Right  of  Way 

Travels 
Round  the  Compass  in  Australia 

Poems 
A  Lover's  Diary 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 
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DON  OVAN 
PAS  HA 

AND   SOME 
PEOPLE   OF   EGYPT 


BY 


GILBERT   PARKER 


iis^iS 


D.  APPLETON  &   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
GILBERT    PARKER 


Published  Beptemltcr,  1902 


SIR   JOHN    ROGERS 


?.*..**«** 


*;*. fe. 


A  FOREWORD 

It  is  now  twelve  years  since  I  began  giving  to 
the  public  tales  of  life  in  lands  well  known  to 
me.  The  first  of  them  were  drawn  from  Aus- 
tralia and  the  Islands  of  the  Southern  Pacific, 
where  I  had  lived  and  roamed  in  the  rniddle  and 
late  Eighties.  They  appeared  in  various  Eng- 
lish magazines,  and  were  written  in  London,  far 
from  the  scenes  which  suggested  them.  None 
of  them  wei^e  written  on  the  spot,  as  it  were.  I 
did  not  think  then,  and  I  do  not  think  now,  that 
this  was  perilous  to  their  truthfulness.  After 
many  years  of  travel  and  home-staying  observar 
tion  I  have  found  that  all  worth  remembrance, 
the  salient  things  and  scenes,  emerge  clearly  out 
of  myriad  impressions,  and  become  permanent 
in  mind  and  memory.  Things  so  emeiging  are 
typical  at  least,  and  probably  true. 

Those  tales  of  the  Far  South  wei^e  given  out 
with  some  prodigality.     They  did  not  appear 


.  iWiiJ^j.VAi.XlL; 


'V-^iilL:L1"V' 


mm 


A  FOREWORD 

in  book  for  My  however  ;  for  ^  at  ihe 
sending  out  these  Antipodean  skei 
also  writing— far  from  the  scenes 
were  laid — a  series  of  Canadian  tal 
which  appeared  in  the  "  Independei 
Yorky  in  the  *^  National  Observer 
Mr.  Heidey,  and  in  the  "  Illustra\ 
News."  By  accident ^  and  on  the  sii 
my  friend  Mr.  Herdey,  the  Can 
*'  Pierre  and  his  People  "  were  put 
with  the  ?^esult  that  the  stories  of  t 
Hemisphere  were  withheld  from 
though  they  have  been  privately  i 
duly  copyrighted.  Some  day  I  ma. 
forth,  but  meanwhile  I  am  content  t 
in  my  own  care. 

Moved  always  by  deep  interest  h 
manifestations  of  life  in  different 
the  Empire,  five  or  six  years  age 
tract ed  to  the  Island  of  Jersey,  in 
Sea,  by  the  likeness  of  the  origin  oj 
with  that  of  the  French  Canadians, 
live  at  St.  Heliers  for  a  time,  and  ii 
novel  called  "  The  Battle  of  the  Str 


A   FOREWORD 

ing  visited  another  and  newer  sphere  of  Eng- 
lands  influence^  Egypt  to  wit,  in  1889, 1  should 
then  determine  that,  when  I  could  study  the 
country  at  leisure,  I  should  try  to  write  of  the 
life  there,  so  full  of  splendour  and  of  primi- 
tive simplicity ;  of  mystery  and  guilt ;  of  cruel 
indolence  and  beautiful  industry;  of  tyranny 
and  devoted  slavery ;  of  the  high  elements  of  a 
true  democracy  and  the  shameful  practices  of  a 
false  autocracy  ;  all  touched  off  by  the  majesty 
of  an  ancient  charm,  the  nobility  of  the  remotest 
history. 

The  years  went  by,  and,  four  times  visiting 
Egypt,  at  last  I  began  to  write  of  her.  That  is 
now  five  years  ago.  From  time  to  time  the  stories 
which  I  offer  to  the  public  in  this  volume  were 
given  forth.  It  is  likely  that  the  old  Anglo- 
Egyptian  and  the  historical  student  may  find 
some  anachronisms  and  other  things  to  criticise; 
but  the  anachronisms  are  deliberate,  and  even 
as  in  writing  of  Canada  and  Australia,  which 
I  know  very  well,  I  have  here,  perhaps,  sacri- 
ficed superficial  exactness  while  trying  to  give 
the  more  intimate  meaning  and  spi?it.  I  have 
never  thought  it  necessary  to  apologise  for  this 

ix 


».*«- 


•v* 


■'?-  •<;^TT:;;zgi'i''*^^ '"..-? 


mm 


A  FOREWORD 

disregard  ofpliotograpJiic  accuracy 
be  found  in  my  note-books — and 
begin  to  do  so  now.  I  shall  be 
grateful  if  this  series  of  tales  does  n 
make  ready  the  way  for  the  novel  i 
life  on  which  I  have  been  workin 
years.  It  is  an  "  avajit  courier."  . 
ever,  that  it  may  be  welcomed  for  i 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

While  the  Lamp  Holds  Out  to  Burn  ...  1 
The  Price  of  the  Grindstone — and  the  Drum  22 
The  Desertion  of  Mahommed  Selim  ....     42 

On  the  Reef  of  Norman''s  Woe 69 

Fielding  had  an  Orderly 93 

The  Eye  of  the  Needle 113 

A  Treaty  of  Peace 133 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius 155 

All  the  World's  Mad 173 

The  Man  at  the  Wheel      .' 191 

A  Tyrant  and  a  Lady 208 

A  Young  Lion  of  Dedan 292 

He  would  not  be  Denied 320 

The  Flower  of  the  Flock 341. 

The  Light  of  Other  Days 367 


%.-*^ 


\v 


msmssam 


■^ 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS 
OUT  TO  BURN 

^HERE  is  a  town  on  the  Nile 
which  Fielding  Bey  called 
Hasha,  meaning  "  Heaven  For- 
bid !  "  He  loathed  inspecting 
it.  Going  up  the  Nile,  he 
would  put  off  visiting  it  till  he 
came  down ;  coming  down,  he 
thanked  his  fates  if  accident 
carried  him  beyond  it.  Con- 
venient accidents  sometimes  did  occur : 
a  murder  at  one  of  the  villages  below 
it,  asking  his  immediate  presence ;  a 
telegram  from  his  Minister  at  Cairo,  requiring 
his  return;  or  a  very  low  Nile,  when  Hasha 
suddenly  found  itself  a  mile  away  from  the 
channel  and  there  was  no  good  place  to  land. 
So  it  was  that  Hasha,  with  httle  inspection, 
was  the  least  reputable,  and  almost  the  dirtiest 
town  on  the  Nile ;  for  even  in  those  far-off 
days  the  official  Englishman  had  his  influence, 


WHILE   THE  LAMP   HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

especially  when  Kubar  Pasha  was  behind  him. 
Kubar  had  his  good  points. 

There  were  certain  definite  reasons,  however, 
why  Fielding  Bey  shrank  from  visiting  Hasha. 
Donovan  Pasha  saw  something  was  wrong 
from  the  first  moment  Hasha  was  mentioned. 

On  a  particular  day  they  were  lying  below 
at  another  village,  on  the  Amcnhotep.  Hasha 
was  the  next  place  marked  red  on  the  map, 
and  that  meant  inspection.  When  Dicky 
Donovan  mentioned  Hasha,  Fielding  Bey 
twisted  a  shoulder  and  walked  nervously  up 
and  down  the  deck.  He  stayed  here  for  hours : 
to  .  wait  for  the  next  post,  he  said — serious 
matters  expected  from  head-quarters.  He  ap- 
peared not  to  realise  that  letters  would  get  to 
Hasha  by  rail  as  quickly  as  by  the  Amciihotej}. 
Every  man  has  a  weak  spot  in  his  character,  a 
sub-rosa,  as  it  were,  in  his  business  of  life ;  and 
Dicky  fancied  he  had  found  Fielding  Bey's. 
While  they  waited,  Fielding  made  a  pretence 
of  working  liard — for  he  really  was  conscien- 
tious— sending  his  orderly  for  the  mamour* 
and  the  omdah,  and  holding  fatuous  confer- 
ences ;  turning  the  hose  on  the  local  dairymen 
and  butchers  and  date-growers,  who  came  M'^ith 
backsheesh  in  kind ;  burying  his  nose  in  official 
papers ;  or  sending  for  Holgate,  the  Yorkshire 

*  A  Glossary  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  book. 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

engineer,  to  find  out  what  the  run  would  be 
to  the  next  stopping-place  beyond  Hasha. 
Twice  he  did  this  ;  which  was  very  little  like 
Fielding  Bey.  The  second  time,  when  Hol- 
gate  came  below  to  his  engine,  Dicky  was 
there  playing  with  a  Farshoot  dog. 

"  We  don't  stop  at  Hasha,  then  ? "  Dicky 
said,  and  let  the  Farshoot  fasten  on  his  leg- 
gings. 

Holgate  swung  round  and  eyed  Dicky  curi- 
ously, a  queer  smile  at  his  lips. 

"  Not  if  Goovnur  can  'elp,  aw  give  ye  ma 
woord,  sir,"  answered  Holgate. 

Fielding  was  affectionately  called  "  the  Gov- 
ernor "  by  his  subordinates  and  friends. 

"  We  all  have  our  likes  and  dislikes,"  re- 
joined Dicky  casually,  and  blew  smoke  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Farshoot. 

"  Aye,  aw've  seen  places  that  bad !  but 
Hasha  has  taaste  of  its  own  in  Goovnur's 
mouth,  ma  life  on't !  " 

"  Never  can  tell  when  a  thing'U  pall  on  the 
taste.  Hasha's  turn  with  the  Governor  now, 
eh?"  rejoined  Dicky. 

Dicky's  way  of  getting  information  seemed 
guileless,  and  Holgate  opened  his  basket  as 
wide  as  he  knew. 

"  Toorn,  didst  tha  saay "  (Holgate  talked 
broadly  to  Dicky  always,  for  Dicky  had  told 

3 


WHILE   THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO   BURN 

him  of  his  aunt,  Lady  Carmichael,  who  lived 
near  HaUfax,  in  Yorkshire),  "toorn,  aw  war- 
rant !  It  be  reg  lar  as  kitchen-fire,  this  Hasha 
business,  for  three  years,  ever  sin'  aw  been 
scrapin'  mud  o'  Nile  River." 

"  That  was  a  nasty  row  they  had  over  the 
cemetery  three  years  ago,  the  Governor  against 
the  lot,  from  mamour  to  wekeel ! " 

Holgate's  eyes  flashed,  and  he  looked  almost 
angrily  down  at  Dicky,  whose  hand  was  be- 
tween the  teeth  of  the  playful  Farshoot. 

"  Doost  think — noa,  tha  canst  not  think  that 
Goovnur  be  'feared  o'  Hasha  fook.  Thinks't 
tha,  a  man  that  told  'em  all — a  thousand  theer 
— that  he'd  hang  on  nearest  tree  the  foorst 
that  disobeyed  him,  thinks't  tha  that  Goov- 
nur's  lost  his  nerve  by  that  1 " 

"  The  Governor  never  loses  his  nerve,  Hol- 
gate,"  said  Dicky,  smihng  and  offering  a  cigar. 
"  There's  such  a  thing  as  a  man  being  afraid 
to  trust  himself  where  he's  been  in  a  mess,  lest 
he  hit  out,  and  doesn't  want  to." 

Holgate,  being  excited,  was  in  a  fit  state  to 
tell  the  truth,  if  he  knew  it ;  which  was  what 
Dicky  liad  worked  for  ;  but  Holgate  only  said  : 

"It  bean't  fear,  and  it  bean't  milk  o'  human 
kindness.  It  be  soort  o'  thing  a  man  gets. 
Aw  had  it  once  i'  Bradford,  in  Little  Cornish 
Street.     Aw  saw  a  faace  look  out  o'  window 

4 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

o'  hoose  by  tinsmith's  shop,  an'  that  faace  was 
like  hell's  picture— aye,  'twas  a  killingous  faace 
that !  Aw  never  again  could  pass  that  hoose. 
'Twas  a  woman's  faace.  Horrible  'twas,  an' 
sore  sad  an'  flootered  aw  were,  for  t'  faace  was 
Hke  a  lass  aw  loved  when  aw  wur  a  lad." 

*'  I  should  think  it  was  something  hke  that," 
answered  Dicky,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the 
peninsula  beyond  which  lay  Hasha. 

*'  Summat,  aw  be  sure,"  answered  Holgate, 
"  an'  ma  woord  on't  ...  ah,  yon  coomes 
orderly  wi'  post  for  Goovnur.  Now  it  be 
Hasha,  or  it  be  not  Hasha,  it  be  time  for 
steam  oop." 

Holgate  turned  to  his  engine  as  Dicky 
mounted  the  stairs  and  went  to  Fielding's 
cabin,  where  the  orderly  was  untying  a  hand- 
kerchief ovei-flowing  with  letters. 

As  Fielding  read  his  official  letters  his  face 
fell  more  and  more.  When  he  had  read  the 
last,  he  sat  for  a  minute  without  speaking,  his 
brow  very  black.  There  was  no  excuse  for 
pushing  past  Hasha.  He  had  not  been  there 
for  over  a  year.  It  was  his  duty  to  inspect  the 
place :  he  had  a  conscience  ;  there  was  time  to 
get  to  Hasha  that  afternoon.  With  an  effort 
he  rose,  hurried  along  the  deck,  and  caUed 
down  to  Holgate : 

"  Full-steam  to  Hasha  !  " 


WHn.E  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

Then,  with  a  quick  command  to  the  reis, 
who  was  already  at  the  wheel,  he  lighted  a 
cigar,  and,  joining  Dicky  Donovan,  began  to 
smoke  and  talk  furiously.  But  he  did  not 
talk  of  Hasha. 

At  sunset  the  Amenhotep  drew  in  to  the 
bank  by  Hasha,  and,  from  the  deck.  Field- 
ing Bey  saluted  the  mamour,  the  omdah  and 
his  own  subordinates  who,  buttoning  up  their 
coats  as  they  came,  hurried  to  the  bank  to 
make  salaams  to  him.  Behind  them,  at  a  dis- 
tance, came  villagers,  a  dozen  ghaffirs  armed 
with  naboots  of  dom-wood,  and  a  brace  of  well- 
mounted,  badly-dressed  policemen,  with  seats 
like  a  monkey  on  a  stick.  The  conferences 
with  the  mamour  and  omdah  were  short,  in 
keeping  with  the  temper  of  "Fielding  Saadat" ; 
and  long  into  the  night  Dicky  lay  and  looked 
out  of  his  cabin  window  to  the  fires  on  the 
banks,  where  sat  JMahommed  Seti  the  servant, 
the  orderly,  and  some  attendant  ghaffirs,  who, 
feasting  on  the  remains  of  the  effendi's  supper, 
kept  watch.  For  Hasha  was  noted  for  its  rob- 
bers. It  was  even  rumoured  that  the  egre- 
gious Selamlik  Pasha,  with  the  sugar  planta- 
tion near  by — "  Trousers,"  13icky  called  him 
when  he  saw  him  on  the  morrow,  because  of 
the  elephantine  breeks  he  wore — was  not  averse 
to  sending  his  ^Vbyssinian  slaves  through  the 

6 


WHn.E  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

sugar-cane  to  waylay  and  rob,  and  worse, 
maybe. 

By  five  o'clock  next  day  the  inspection  was 
over.  The  streets  had  been  swept  for  the  Ex- 
cellency— which  is  to  say  Saadcit — the  first 
time  in  a  year.  The  prison  had  been  cleaned  of 
visible  horrors,  the  first  time  in  a  month.  The 
last  time  it  was  ordered  there  had  been  a  riot 
among  the  starving,  infested  prisoners;  earth 
had  been  thrown  over  the  protruding  bones  of 
the  dear  lamented  dead  in  the  cemetery;  the 
water  of  the  ablution  places  in  the  mosque  had 
been  changed ;  the  ragged  policemen  had  new 
putties;  the  kourbashes  of  the  tax-gatherers 
were  hid  in  their  yeleks ;  the  egregious  Pasha 
wore  a  greasy  smile,  and  the  sub-mudir,  as  he 
conducted  Fielding  —  "whom  God  preserve 
and  honour!  " — through  the  prison  and  through 
the  hospital,  where  goat's  milk  had  been  laid 
on  for  this  especial  day,  smirked  gently  through 
the  bazaar  above  his  Parisian  waistcoat. 

But  Fielding,  as  he  rode  on  Selamlik  Pasha's 
gorgeous  black  donkey  from  Assiout,  with  its 
crimson  trappings,  knew  what  proportion  of 
improvement  this  "  hanky-panky,"  as  Dicky 
called  it,  bore  to  the  condition  of  things  at  the 
last  inspection.  He  had  spoken  little  all  day  : 
and  Dicky  had  noticed  that  his  eye  was  con- 
stantly turning  here  and  there,  as  though  look- 

7 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

ing  for  an  unwelcome  something  or  some- 
body. 

At  last  the  thing  was  over,  and  they  were 
just  crossing  the  canal,  the  old  Bahr-el-Yusef, 
which  cuts  the  town  in  twain  as  the  river 
Abana  does  Damascus,  when  Dicky  saw  near- 
ing  them  a  heavily-laden  boat,  a  cross  between 
a  Thames  houseboat  and  an  Italian  gondola, 
being  drawn  by  one  poor  rawbone — rawbone 
in  truth,  for  there  was  on  each  shoulder  a 
round  red  place,  made  raw  by  the  unsheathed 
ropes  used  as  harness.  The  beast's  sides  were 
scraped  as  a  tree  is  barked,  and  the  hind  quar- 
ters gored  as  though  by  a  harrow.  Dicky  was 
riding  with  the  mamour  of  the  district,  Field- 
ing was  a  distance  behind  with  Trousers  and 
the  Mudir.  Dicky  pulled  up  his  donkey,  got 
oif  and  ran  towards  the  horse,  pale  with  fury ; 
for  he  loved  animals  better  than  men,  and  had 
wasted  his  strength  beating  donkey-boys  with 
the  sticks  they  used  on  their  victims.  The 
boat  had  now  readied  a  point  opposite  the 
mudirieh,  its  stopping-place  ;  and  the  rawbone, 
reeking  with  sweat  and  blood,  stood  still  and 
trembled,  its  knees  shaking  with  tlie  strain  just 
taken  off  them,  its  head  sunk  nearly  to  the 
ground. 

Dicky  had  hardly  reached  the  spot  when  a 
figure  came  running  to  the  poor  waler  with  a 
•  8 


V\^HILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

quick  stumbling  motion.  Dicky  drew  back  in 
wonder,  for  never  had  he  seen  eyes  so  painful 
as  these  that  glanced  from  the  tortured  beast 
to  himself— staring,  bulbous,  bloodshot,  hunted 
eyes  ;  but  they  were  blue,  a  sickly,  faded  blue  ; 
and  they  were  English  !  Dicky's  hand  was  on 
his  pistol,  for  his  first  impulse  had  been  to  shoot 
"  the  rawbone  " ;  but  it  dropped  away  in  sheer 
astonishment  at  the  sight  of  this  strange  fig- 
ure in  threadbare  dirty  clothes  and  riding- 
breeches  made  by  shearing  the  legs  of  a  long 
pair — cut  with  an  unsteady  hand,  for  the  edges 
were  jagged  and  imeven,  and  the  man's  bare 
leg  showed  above  the  cast-off  putties  of  a  po- 
liceman. The  coat  was  an  old  khaki  jacket 
of  a  Gippy  soldier,  and,  being  scant  of  buttons, 
doubtful  linen  showed  beneath.  Above  the 
hook-nose,  once  aristocratic,  now  vulture- like 
and  shrunken  like  that  of  Kameses  in  his  glass 
case  at  Ghizeh,  was  a  tarboosh  tilting  forward 
over  the  eyes,  nearly  covering  the  forehead. 
The  figure  must  have  been  very  tall  once,  but 
it  was  stooped  now,  though  the  height  was 
still  well  above  medium.  Hunted,  haunted, 
ravaged,  and  lost,  was  the  face,  and  the  long 
gray  moustache,  covering  the  chin  almost, 
seemed  to  cover  an  immeasurable  depravity. 

Dicky  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  and  won- 
dered with  a  bitter  wonder ;  for  this  was  an 

9 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

Englishman,  and  behind  him  and  around  him, 
though  not  very  near  liim,  were  Arabs,  Sou- 
danese, and  Fellaheen,  with  sneering  yet  ap- 
prehensive faces. 

As  Dicky's  hand  dropped  away  from  his 
pistol,  the  other  shot  out  trembling,  graceful, 
eager  fingers,  the  one  inexpressibly  gentle- 
manly thing  about  him. 

"  Give  it  to  me — quick !  "  he  said,  and  he 
threw  a  backward  glance  towards  the  approach- 
ing group — Fielding,  the  egregious  Pasha,  and 
the  rest. 

Dicky  did  not  hesitate ;  he  passed  the  pistol 
over. 

The  Lost  One  took  the  pistol,  cocked  it, 
and  held  it  to  the  head  of  the  waler,  which 
feebly  turned  to  him  in  recognition. 

"  Good-bye,  old  man !  "  he  said,  and  fired. 

The  horse  dropped,  kicked,  struggled  once 
or  twice,  and  was  gone. 

"If  you  know  the  right  spot,  there's  hardly 
a  kick,"  said  the  Lost  One,  and  turned  to  face 
tlie  Pasha,  who  had  whipped  his  donkey  for- 
ward on  them,  and  sat  now,  livid  with  rage, 
before  the  two.  He  stood  speechless  for  a 
moment,  for  his  anger  had  forced  the  fat  of  his 
neck  up  into  his  throat. 

But  Dicky  did  not  notice  tlie  Paslia.  His 
eye  was  fixed  on  Fielding  Hey,  and  the  eye 

10 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

of  Fielding  Bey  was  on  the  Lost  One.  All 
at  once  Dicky  understood  why  it  was  that 
Fielding  Bey  had  shrunk  from  coming  to 
Hasha.  Fielding  might  have  offered  many 
reasons,  but  this  figure  before  them  was  the 
true  one.  Trouble,  pity,  anxiety,  pride,  all 
were  in  Fielding's  face.  Because  the  Lost 
One  was  an  Englishman,  and  the  race  was 
shamed  and  injured  by  this  outcast  ?  Not  that 
alone.  Fielding  had  the  natural  pride  of  his 
race,  but  this  look  was  personal.  He  glanced 
at  the  dead  horse,  at  the  scarred  sides,  the  raw 
shoulders,  the  corrugated  haunches,  he  saw  the 
pistol  in  the  Lost  One's  hand,  and  then,  as  a 
thread  of  light  steals  between  the  black  trees 
of  a  jungle,  a  light  stole  across  Fielding's  face 
for  a  moment.  He  saw  the  Lost  One  hand 
the  pistol  back  to  Dicky,  and  fix  his  debauched 
blue  eyes  on  the  Pasha.  These  blue  eyes  did 
not  once  look  at  Fielding,  though  they  were 
aware  of  his  presence. 

"  Son  of  a  dog  !  "  said  the  Pasha,  and  his  fat 
forefinger  convulsively  pointed  to  the  horse. 

The  Lost  One's  eyes  wavered  a  second,  as 
though  their  owner  had  not  the  courage  to 
abide  the  effect  of  his  action,  then  they  quick- 
ened to  a  point  of  steadiness,  as  a  lash  sudden- 
ly knots  for  a  crack  in  the  hand  of  a  postilion. 

"  Swine ! "  said  the  Lost  One  into  the 
11 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

Pasha's  face,  and  his  round  shoulders  drew  up 
a  httle  farther,  so  that  he  seemed  more  hke  a 
man  among  men.  His  hands  fell  on  his  hips 
as,  in  his  mess,  an  officer  with  no  pockets  drops 
his  knuckles  on  his  waist-line  for  a  stand-at- 
ease. 

The  egregious  Selamlik  Pasha  stood  high  in 
favour  with  the  Khedive :  was  it  not  he  who  had 
suggested  a  tax  on  the  earnings  of  the  danc- 
ing girls,  the  Ghazeeyehs,  and  did  he  not  him- 
self act  as  the  first  tax-gatherer  ?  Was  it  not 
Selamlik  Pasha  also  who  whispered  into  the 
ear  of  the  Mouffetish  that  a  birth-tax  and  a 
burial-tax  should  be  instituted  ?  And  had  he 
not  seen  them  carried  out  in  the  mudiriehs 
under  his  own  supervision  ?  Had  he  not  him- 
self made  the  Fellaheen  pay  thrice  over  for 
water  for  their  onion-fields  ?  Had  he  not 
flogged  an  Arab  to  death  w  itli  his  own  hand, 
the  day  before  Fielding's  and  Dicky's  arrival, 
and  had  he  not  tried  to  get  this  same  Arab's 
daughter  into  his  harem — this  Selamlik  Pasha  ! 

The  voice  of  the  Lost  One  suddenly  rose 
shrill  and  excited,  and  he  shouted  at  the 
Pasha.  "  Swine  I  swine  I  swine !  .  .  .  Kill 
your  slaves  with  a  kourbash  if  you  like,  but  a 
bullet's  the  thing  for  a  waler  !^ — Swine  of  a 
leper  I " 

The  whole  frame  of  the  I^ost  One  was  still, 
12 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

but  the  voice  was  shaking,  querulous,  half 
hysterical;  the  eyes  were  lighted  with  a  ter- 
rible excitement,  the  lips  under  the  gray  mous- 
tache twitched ;  the  nervous  slipshod  dignity 
of  carriage  was  in  curious  contrast  to  the  dis- 
ordered patchwork  dress. 

The  trouble  on  Fielding's  face  glimmered 
with  a  little  ray  of  hope  now.  Dicky  came 
over  to  him,  and  was  about  to  speak,  but  a 
motion  of  Fielding's  hand  stopped  him.  The 
hand  said,  "  Let  them  fight  it  out." 

In  a  paroxysm  of  passion  Selamlik  Pasha 
called  two  Abyssinian  slaves  standing  behind. 
"  This  brother  of  a  toad  to  prison  !  "  he  said. 

The  Lost  One's  eyes  sought  Dicky  like  a 
flash.  Without  a  word,  and  as  quick  as  the  tick 
of  a  clock,  Dicky  tossed  over  his  pistol  to  the 
Lost  One,  who  caught  it  smoothly,  turned  it 
in  his  hand,  and  levelled  it  at  the  Abyssinians. 

"  No  more  of  this  damned  nonsense,  Pasha," 
said  Fielding  suddenly.  "  He  doesn't  put  a 
high  price  on  his  life,  and  you  do  on  yours. 
I'd  be  careful!" 

"Steady,  Trousers!"  said  Dicky  in  a  soft 
voice,  and  smiled  his  girlisli  smile. 

Selamhk  Pasha  stared  for  a  moment  in  black 
anger,  then  stuttered  forth  :  "  Will  you  speak 
for  a  dog  of  a  slave  that  his  own  country 
vomits  out? " 

13 


WHH.E  THE  LAIMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

"  Your  mother  was  a  slave  of  Darfur, 
Pasha,"  answered  Fielding,  in  a  low  voice ; 
"  your  father  lost  his  life  steahng  slaves.  Let's 
have  no  airs  and  graces." 

Dicky's  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the  Lost 
One,  and  his  voice  now  said  in  its  quaint 
treble  :  "  Don't  get  into  a  perspiration.  He's 
from  where  we  get  our  bad  manners,  and  he 
messes  with  us  to-night.  Pasha." 

The  effect  of  these  words  was  curious. 
Fielding's  face  was  a  blank  surprise,  and  his 
mouth  opened  to  say  no,  but  he  caught 
Dicky's  look  and  the  word  was  not  uttered. 
The  Pasha's  face  showed  curious  incredulity; 
under  the  pallor  of  the  Lost  One's  a  purplish 
flush  crept,  stayed  a  moment,  then  faded 
away,  and  left  it  paler  than  before. 

"  We Ve  no  more  business,  I  think.  Pasha," 
said  Fielding  brusquely,  and  turned  his  don- 
key towards  the  river.  The  Paslia  salaamed 
without  a  word,  his  Abyssinian  slaves  helped 
him  on  his  great  white  donkey,  and  he  trotted 
away  towards  the  palace,  the  trousers  flapping 
about  his  huge  legs.  The  Lost  One  stood 
fingering  tlie  revolver.  Presently  he  looked 
up  at  Dicky,  and,  standing  still,  held  out  the 
pistol. 

"  Better  keep  it,"  said  Dicky  ;  "  Fll  give 
you  some  peas  for  it  to-night.     Speak  to  the 

14- 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

poor  devil,  Fielding,"  he  added  quickly,  in  a 
low  tone. 

Fielding  turned  in  his  saddle.  "  Seven's 
the  hour,"  he  said,  and  rode  on. 

"  Thanks,  you  fellows, "  said  the  Lost  One, 
and  walked  swiftly  away. 

As  they  rode  to  the  Ainenhotep  Dicky  did 
not  speak,  but  once  he  turned  round  to  look 
after  the  outcast,  who  was  hurrying  along  the 
bank  of  the  canal. 

When  Fielding  and  Dicky  reached  the  deck 
of  the  Amenhotep,  and  JMahommed  Seti  had 
brought  refreshment,  Dicky  said :  "  AVhat  did 
he  do?  " 

Fielding's  voice  was  constrained  and  hard : 
"  Cheated  at  cards." 

Dicky's  lips  tightened.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  At  Hong  Kong." 

"Officer?" 

"  In  the  Buffs." 

Dicky  drew  a  long  breath.  "  He's  paid  the 
piper." 

"  Naturally.     He  cheated  twice." 

"  Cheated  twice — at  cards  !  "  Dicky's  voice 
was  hard  now.     "  AVho  was  he?" 

"  Heatherby — Bob  Heatherby  ! " 

"Bob  Heatherby— gad !  Fielding,  I'm 
sorry — I — couldn't  have  guessed,  old  man  ! 
Mrs.  Henshaw's  brother!" 

15 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

Fielding  nodded.  Dicky  turned  iiis  head 
away ;  for  Fielding  was  in  love  with  JNlrs.  Hen- 
shaw,  the  widow  of  Henshaw  of  the  Buffs.  He 
realised  now  why  Fielding  loathed  Hasha  so. 

"  Forgive  me  for  asking  him  to  mess,  guv'- 
nor. 

Fielding  laughed  a  little  uneasily.  "  Never 
mind.  You  see,  it  isn't  the  old  scores  only 
that  bar  him.  He's  been  a  sweep  out  here. 
Nothing  he  hasn't  done.  •  Gone  lower  and 
lower  and  lower.  Tax-gatherer  with  a  kour- 
bash for  old  Selamlik  the  beast.  Panderer  for 
the  same.     Sweep  of  the  lowest  sort !  " 

Dicky's  eyes  flashed.  "  I  say,  Fielding,  it 
would  be  rather  strange  if  he  hadn't  gone 
down,  down,  down.  A  man  that's  cheated 
at  cards  never  finds  anybody  to  help  him  up, 
up,  up.  The  chances  are  dead  against  him. 
But  he  stood  up  well  to-day,  eh  ? " 

"  I  suppose  blood  will  tell  at  last  in  the  very 
worst." 

" '  And  while  tlie  lamp  holds  out  to  burn 
The  vilest  sinner  may  return — '  '*^ 

hummed  Dicky  musingly.  Tlien  he  added* 
slowly  :  "  Fielding,  fellows  of  that  kind  al- 
ways flare  up  a  bit,  according  to  Cavendish, 
just  before  the  end.  Fve  seen  it  once  or 
twice  before.     It's  the  last  clutch  at  the  grass 

16 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

as  they  go  slip — slip — slipping  down.  Take 
my  word  for  it,  Heatherby's  near  the  finish." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  Selamlik,  the  old 
leper,  '11  lay  in  wait  for  him.  He'll  get  lost 
in  the  sugar-cane  one  of  these  evenings  soon." 

"  Couldn't  we  ..."  Dicky  paused. 

Fielding  started,  looked  at  Dicky  intently, 
and  then  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  It's  no 
good,  Dicky.     It  nev^er  is." 

"  '  While  the  lamp  holds  out  to  burn  .  .  . '" 
said  Dicky,  and  lighted  another  cigarette. 

Precisely  at  seven  o'clock  Heatherby  ap- 
peared. He  had  on  a  dress-suit,  brown  and 
rusty,  a  white  tie  made  of  a  handkerchief  torn 
in  two,  and  a  pair  of  patent-leather  shoes, 
scraggy  and  cracked. 

Fielding  behaved  well,  Dicky  was  amiable 
and  attentive,  and  the  dinner  being  ready  to 
the  instant,  tliere  was  no  waiting,  there  were 
no  awkward  pauses.  No  names  of  English 
people  were  mentioned,  England  was  not 
named;  nor  Cairo,  nor  anything  that  English 
people  abroad  love  to  discuss.  The  fellah, 
the  Pasha,  the  Soudan  were  the  only  topics. 
Under  Fielding's  courtesy  and  Dicky's  acute 
suggestions,  Heatherby's  weakened  '  brain 
awaked,  and  he  talked  intelligently,  till  the 
moment   coffee   was    brought   in.      Then,   as 

17 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

JVIahomiiied  Seti  retired,  Heatherby  suddenly 
threw  himself  forward,  his  arms  on  the  table, 
and  burst  into  sobs. 

"  Oh,  you  fellows,  you  fellows  ! "  he  said. 
There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  then  he  sobbed 
out  again :  "  It's  the  first  time  I've  been  treated 
like  a  gentleman  by  men  that  knew  me,  these 
fifteen  years.     It — it  gets  me  in  the  throat ! " 

His  body  shook  with  sobs.  Fielding  and 
Dicky  were  uncomfortable,  for  these  were  not 
the  sobs  of  a  driveller  or  a  drunkard.  Behind 
them  was  the  blank  failure  of  a  life — fifteen 
years  of  miserable  torture,  of  degradation,  of 
a  daily  descent  lower  into  the  pit,  of  the  servi- 
tude of  shame.  When  at  last  he  raised  his 
streaming  eyes  Fielding  and  Dicky  could  see 
the  haunting  terror  of  the  soul,  at  whose  el- 
bow, as  it  were,  every  man  cried,  "  You  are 
without  the  pale  !  "  That  look  told  them  how 
Heatherby  of  the  Buffs  had  gone  from  table 
(Thote  to  table  dliote  of  Europe,  from  town  to 
town,  from  village  to  village,  to  make  ac- 
quaintances who  repulsed  him  when  they  dis- 
covered who  he  really  was. 

Shady  Heatherby,  who  cheated  at  cards! 

Once  Fielding  made  as  if  to  put  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  speak  to  him,  but  Dicky  in- 
tervened with  a  look. 

The  two  drank  their  coffee,  Fielding  a  little 
18 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

uneasily;  but  yet  in  his  face  there  was  a  new 
look :  of  inquiry,  of  kindness,  even  of  hope. 

Presently  Dicky  flashed  a  look  and  nodded 
towards  the  door,  and  Fielding  dropped  his 
cigar  and  went  on  deck,  and  called  down  to 
Holgate  the  engineer; 

"  Get  up  steam,  and  make  for  Luxor.  It's 
moonlight,  and  we're  safe  enough  in  this  high 
Nile,  eh,  Holgate?" 

"  Safe  enough,  or  aw'm  a  Dootchman,"  said 
Holgate.  Then  they  talked  in  a  low  voice 
together. 

Down  in  the  saloon,  Dicky  sat  watching 
Heatherby.  At  last  the  Lost  One  raised  his 
head  again. 

"  It's  worth  more  to  me,  this  night,  than 
you  fellows  know,"  he  said  brokenly. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Dicky.  "  Have  a 
Cigar  i 

He  shook  his  head.  "  It's  come  at  the  right 
time.  I  wanted  to  be  treated  like  an  English- 
man once  more — just  once  more." 

"  Don't  worry.  Take  in  a  reef  and  go  steady 
for  a  bit.  The  milk's  spilt,  but  there  are  other 
meadows.  .  .  ."  Dicky  waved  an  arm  up  the 
river,  up  towards  the  Soudan  ! 

The  Lost  One  nodded,  then  his  eyes  blazed 
up  and  took  on  a  hungry  look.  His  voice 
suddenly  came  in  a  whisper. 

19 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

"  Gordon  was  a  white  man.  Gordon  said  to 
me  three  years  ago,  '  Come  with  me,  I'll  help 
you  on.  You  don't  need  to  live,  if  you  don't 
want  to.  JNIost  of  us  will  get  knocked  out  up 
there  in  the  Soudan.'  Gordon  said  that  to  me. 
But  there  was  another  fellow  with  Gordon  who 
knew  me,  and  I  couldn't  face  it.  So  I  stayed 
behind  here.  I've  been  everything,  anything, 
to  that  swine,  Selamlik  Pasha;  but  when  he 
told  me  yesterday  to  bring  him  the  daughter  of 
the  Arab  he  killed  with  his  kourbash,  I  jibbed. 
I  couldn't  stand  that.  Her  father  had  fed  me 
more  than  once.  I  jibbed — by  God,  I  jibbed  ! 
I  said  I  was  an  Englishman,  and  I'd  see  him 
damned  first.  I  said  it,  and  I  shot  the  horse, 
and  I'd  have  shot  him — ic/tafs  that  ?  " 

There  was  a  churning  below.  The  Amen- 
hotep  was  moving  from  the  bank. 

"  She's  going — the  boat's  going,"  said  the 
Lost  One,  trembling  to  his  feet. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Dicky,  and  gripped  him 
by  the  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?  "  said  Heather- 
by,  a  strange,  excited  look  in  his  face. 

"  Up  the  river." 

He  seemed  to  read  Dicky's  thoughts — the 
clairvoyance  of  an  overwrought  mind :  "  To — 
to  Assouan  ? "  The  voice  had  a  curious  far- 
away sound. 

20 


WHILE  THE  LAMP  HOLDS  OUT  TO  BURN 

"  You  shall  go  beyond  Assouan,"  said 
Dicky. 

"  To — to  Gordon !  "  Heatherby's  voice  was 
husky  and  indistinct. 

^Yes,  here's  Fielding;  he'll  give  you  the 
tip.  Sit  down."  Dicky  gently  forced  him 
down  into  a  chair. 

Six  months  later,  a  letter  came  to  Dicky 
from  an  Egyptian  officer,  saying  that  Heather- 
by  of  the  Buffs  had  died  gallantly  fighting  in 
a  sortie  sent  by  Gordon  into  the  desert. 

"  He  had  a  lot  of  luck,"  mused  Dicky  as  he 
read. 

"  They  don't  end  that  way  as  a  rule." 

Then  he  went  to  Fielding,  humming  a  cer- 
tain stave  from  one  of  Watts'  hymns. 


«1 


THE    PRICE   OF   THE    GRIND- 
STONE-AND   THE   DRUM* 


E  lived  ill  the  days  ot 
Ismail  the  Khedive,  and 
was  familiarly  known  as 
the  JNlurderer.  He  had 
earned  his  name,  and  he  had  no 
repentance.  From  the  roof  of 
a  hut  in  his  native  village  of 
Manfaloot  he  had  dropped  a 
grindstone  on  the  head  of  Ebn  Ha- 
roun,  who  contended  with  him  for  the 
affections  of  Ahassa,  the  daugliter  of 
Haleel  tlie  barber,  and  Ebn  Haroun's 
head  was  flattened  like  the  cover  of  a 
pie.  Then  he  had  broken  a  cake  of  donrha 
bread  on  the  roof  for  the  pigeons  above  liim, 
and  had  come  down  grinning  to  the  street, 
where  a  hesitating  mounted  policeman  fumbled 
witli  his  weapon,  and  four  ghafiirs  waited  for 
him  with  their  naboots. 

Seti  then  had  weighed  his  chances,  liad  seen 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE 

the  avenging  friends  of  Ebn  Haroun  behind 
the  ghafHrs,  and  therefore  permitted  himself  to 
be  marched  off  to  the  mudirieh.  There  the 
Mudir  glared  at  him  and  had  him  loaded  with 
chains  and  flung  into  the  prison,  where  two 
hundred  convicts  arrayed  themselves  against 
myriad  tribes  which,  killed  individually,  made  a 
spot  on  the  wall  no  bigger  than  a  threepenny- 
bit  !  The  carnage  was  great,  and  though  Seti 
was  sleepless  night  after  night  it  was  not  be- 
cause of  his  crime.  He  found  some  solace, 
however,  in  provoking  his  fellow-prisoners  to 
assaults  upon  each  other;  and  every  morning 
he  grinned  as  he  saw  the  dead  and  wounded 
dragged  out  into  the  clear  sunshine. 

The  end  to  this  came  when  the  father  of 
Seti,  Abou  Seti,  went  at  night  to  the  JMudir 
and  said  deceitfully : 

"  Effendi,  by  the  mercy  of  Heaven  I  have 
been  spared  even  to  this  day ;  for  is  it  not 
written  in  the  Koran  that  a  man  shall  render 
to  his  neighbour  what  is  his  neighbour's  ? 
What  should  Abou  Seti  do  with  ten  feddans 
of  land,  while  the  servant  of  Allah,  the  Effendi 
Insagi,  hves?  What  is  honestly  mine  is  eight 
feddans,  and  the  rest,  by  the  grace  of  God,  is 
thine,  O  effendi." 

Every  feddan  he  had  he  had  honestly  earned, 
but  this  was  his  way  of  offering  backsheesh. 

23 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

And  the  JNludir  had  due  anger  and  said: 
"  No  better  are  ye  than  a  Frank  to  have  hidden 
the  truth  so  long  and  waxed  fat  as  the  Nile 
rises  and  falls.  The  two  feddans,  as  thou 
say  est,  are  mine." 

Abou  Seti  bowed  low,  and  rejoined:  "  Now 
shall  I  sleep  in  peace,  by  the  grace  of  Heaven, 
and  all  my  people  under  my  date-trees — aiid 
all  my  peoide  ? "  he  added,  with  an  upward 
look  at  the  Mudir. 

"  But  the  rentals  of  the  two  feddans  of  land 
these  ten  years — thou  hast  eased  thy  soul  by 
bringing  the  rentals  thereof  ?  " 

Abou  Seti's  glance  fell  and  his  hands 
twitched.  His  fingers  fumbled  with  his  robe 
of  striped  silk.  He  cursed  the  JNIudir  in  his 
heart  for  his  bitter  humour;  but  was  not  his 
son  in  prison,  and  did  it  not  lie  with  the  JNludir 
whether  he  lived  or  died  ?     So  he  answered  : 

"  All-seeing  and  all-knowing  art  thou,  O 
efFendi,  and  I  have  reckoned  the  rentals  even 
to  this  hour  for  the  ten  years — fifty  piastres 
for  each  feddan " 

"A  hundred  for  the  five  years  of  high  Nile," 
interposed  the  Mudir. 

*'  Fif^y  for  the  five  lean  years,  and  a  hundred 
for  the  five  fjit  years,"  said  Abou  Seti,  and 
wished  that  liis  words  were  poisoned  arrows, 
that  they  might  give  tlie  Mudir  many  deaths 

24. 


AND  THE  DRUM 

at  once.     "  And  may  Allah  give  thee  great- 
ness upon  thy  gi-eatness  ! ' ' 

"  God  prosper  thee  also,  Abou  Seti,  and  see 
that  thou  keep  only  what  is  thine  own  hence- 
forth.     Get  thee  gone  in  peace." 

"  At  what  hour  shall  1  see  the  face  of  my 
son  alive  ? "  said  Abou  Seti  in  a  low  voice, 
placing  his  hand  upon  his  turban  in  humility. 

"  To-morrow  at  even,  when  the  Muezzin 
calls  from  the  mosque  of  El  Hassan,  be  thou 
at  the  west  wall  of  the  prison  by  the  Gate  of 
the  Prophet's  Sorrow,  with  thy  fastest  camel. 
He  shall  ride  for  me  through  the  desert  even 
to  Farafreh,  and  bear  a  letter  to  the  bimbashi 
there.  If  he  bear  it  safely,  his  life  is  his  own  ; 
if  he  fail,  look  to  thy  feddans  of  land !  " 

"  God  is  merciful,  and  Seti  is  bone  of  my 
bone,"  said  Abou  Seti,  and  laid  his  hand  again 
upon  his  turban. 

That  was  how  Mahommed  Seti  did  not  at 
once  pay  the  price  of  the  grindstone,  but  rode 
into  the  desert  bearing  the  message  of  the 
Mudir  and  returned  safely  with  the  answer, 
and  was  again  seen  in  the  cafes  of  ^lanfaloot. 
And  none  of  Ebn  Haroun's  friends  did  aught, 
for  the  world  knew  tln-ough  whom  it  was  that 
Seti  lived — and  land  was  hard  to  keep  in  JNIan- 
faloot,  and  the  prison  near. 

But   one   day   a   kavass    of    the     Khedive 
25 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

swooped  doM^n  on  INIanMoot,  and  twenty 
young  men  were  carried  off  in  conscription. 
Among  them  was  Seti,  now  married  to  Ahas- 
sa,  the  fellah  maid  for  w^hom  the  grindstone 
had  fallen  on  Ebn  Haroun's  head.  AVhen  the 
fatal  number  fell  to  him  and  it  was  ordained 
that  he  must  go  to  Dongola  to  serve  in  the 
Khedive's  legions,  he  went  to  his  father,  with 
Ahassa  wailing  beliind  him. 

"Save  thyself,"  said  the  old  man  with  a 
frown. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could— I  have  sold  my 
wife's  jewels,"  answered  Seti. 

' '  Ten  piastres,"  said  old  Abou  Seti  gi'imly. 

"  Tw^elve,"  said  Seti,  grinning  from  ear  to 
ear.  "If  thou  wilt  add  four  feddans  of  land 
to  that  T  will  answer  for  the  jNludir." 

"  Thy  life  only  cost  me  two  feddans.  Shall 
I  pay  four  to  free  thee  of  serving  thy  master 
the  Khedive  ?  Get  thee  gone  into  the  Soudan. 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee :  thou  wilt  live  on.  Al- 
lah is  thy  friend.     Peace  be  with  thee  ! " 

II 

So  it  was  tliat  tlic  broad-shouldered  Seti 
went  to  be  a  soldier,  with  all  the  women  of  the 
village  wailing  behind  liim,  and  Ahassa  his  wife 
covering  her  head  witli  dust  and  weeping  by 

26 


AND   THE   DRUM 

his  side  as  he  stepped  out  towards  Dongola. 
For  himself,  Seti  was  a  philosopher  ;  that  is  to 
say,  he  was  a  true  Egyptian.  Whatever  was, 
was  to  be;  and  Seti  had  a  good  digestion, 
which  is  a  great  thing  in  the  desert.  More- 
over, he  had  a  capacity  for  foraging — or  foray. 
The  calmness  with  which  he  risked  his  life  for 
an  onion  or  a  water-bag  would  have  done  credit 
to  a  prince  of  buccaneers.  He  was  never  flus- 
tered. He  had  dropped  a  grindstone  on  the 
head  of  his  rival,  but  the  smile  that  he  smiled 
then  was  the  same  smile  with  which  he  suffered 
and  forayed  and  fought  and  filched  in  the 
desert.  With  a  back  like  a  door,  and  arms  as 
long  and  strong  as  a  gorilla's,  with  no  moral 
character  to  speak  of,  and  an  imperturbable 
selfishness,  even  an  ignorant  Arab  like  Seti 
may  go  far. 

More  than  once  his  bimbashi  drew  a  sword 
to  cut  him  down  for  the  peaceful  insolent 
grin  with  which  he  heard  himself  suddenly 
charged  with  very  original  crimes  ;  but  even 
the  officer  put  his  sword  up  again,  because  he 
remembered  that  though  Seti  was  the  curse  of 
the  regiment  on  the  march,  there  was  no  man 
like  him  in  the  day  of  battle.  Covered  with 
desert  sand  and  blood,  and  fighting  and  raging 
after  the  manner  of  a  Sikh,  he  could  hold  ten 
companies  together  like  a  wall  against  a  charge 

27 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

of  Dervishes.  The  bimbashi  rejoiced  at  this, 
for  he  was  a  coward ;  likewise  his  captain  was 
a  coward,  and  so  was  his  lieutenant :  for  they 
were  half  Turks,  half  Gippies,  who  had  seen 
Paris  and  had  not  the  decency  to  die  there. 
Also  it  had  been  discovered  that  no  man  made 
so  good  a  spy  or  envoy  as  Seti.  His  gift 
for  lying  was  inexpressible :  confusion  never 
touched  him  ;  for  the  flattest  contradictions  in 
the  matter  of  levying  backsheesh  he  always 
found  an  excuse.  Where  the  bimbashi  and 
his  officers  were  afraid  to  go  lest  the  bald-head- 
ed eagle  and  the  vulture  should  carry  away 
their  heads  as  titbits  to  the  Libyan  hills,  Seti 
was  sent.  In  more  than  one  way  he  always 
kept  his  head.  He  was  at  once  the  curse  and 
the  pride  of  the  regiment.  For  his  sins  he 
could  not  be  punished,  and  his  virtues  were  of 
value  only  to  save  his  life. 

In  this  fashion,  while  his  regiment  thinned 
out  by  disease,  famine,  fighting,  and  the  mid- 
night knife,  Seti  came  on  to  Dongola,  to  Ber- 
ber, to  Khartoum  ;  and  he  grinned  with  satis- 
faction when  he  heard  that  they  would  make 
even  for  Kordofan.  He  had  outlived  all  the 
officers  who  left  Manfaloot  with  the  regiment 
save  the  bimbashi,  and  the  bimbashi  was  su- 
perstitious and  believed  that  wliile  Seti  lived 
he  would  live.     Thererefore,  no  clansman  ever 

28 


AND  THE   DRUM 

watched  his  standard  flying  in  the  van  as  the 
bimbashi — fi-om  behind — watched  the  long 
arm  of  Seti  slaying,  and  heard  his  voice  like  a 
brass  horn  above  all  others  shouting  his  war- 
cry. 

But  at  Khartoum  came  Seti's  fall.  Many 
sorts  of  original  sin  had  been  his,  with  profit 
and  prodigious  pleasure,  but  when,  by  the  sup- 
posed orders  of  the  bimbashi,  he  went  through 
Khartoum  levying  a  tax  upon  every  dancing- 
girl  in  the  place  and  making  her  pay  upon  the 
spot,  at  the  point  of  a  merciless  tongue,  he 
went  one  step  too  far.  For  his  genius  had 
preceded  that  of  Selamhk  Pasha,  the  friend 
of  the  Mouffetish  at  Cairo,  by  one  day  only. 
Selamlik  himself  had  collected  taxes  on  danc- 
ing-girls all  the  way  from  Cairo  to  Khartoum ; 
and  to  be  hoist  by  an  Arab  in  a  foot  regiment 
having  no  authority  and  only  a  limitless  inso- 
lence, was  more  than  the  Excellency  could  bear. 

To  Selamlik  Pasha  the  bimbashi  hastily  dis- 
owned all  knowledge  of  Seti's  perfidy,  but  both 
were  brought  out  to  have  their  hands  and  feet 
and  heads  cut  off  in  the  Beit-el-Mal,  in  the 
presence  of  the  dancing-girls  and  the  populace. 
In  the  appointed  place,  when  Seti  saw  how  the 
bimbashi  wept — for  he  had  been  to  Paris  and 
had  no  Arab  blood  in  him  ;  how  he  wrung 
his  hands — for  had  not  absinthe  weakened  liis 

29 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

nerves  in  the  cafes  of  St.  JNIichel  ? — when  Seti 
saw  that  he  was  no  Arab  and  was  afraid  to  die, 
then  he  told  the  truth  to  Selamlik  Pasha.  He 
even  boldly  offered  to  tell  the  pasha  where  half 
his  own  ill-gotten  gains  were  hid,  if  he  would 
let  the  bimbashi  go.  Now,  Selamlik  Pasha 
was  an  Egyptian,  and  is  it  not  written  in  the 
Book  of  Egypt  that  no  man  without  the  most 
dangerous  reason  may  refuse  backsheesh  ?  So 
it  was  that  Selamlik  talked  to  the  Ulema,  the 
holy  men,  who  were  there,  and  they  urged  him 
to  clemency,  as  holy  men  will,  even  in  Egypt 
— at  a  price. 

So  it  was  also  that  the  bimbashi  went  back 
to  his  regiment  with  all  his  limbs  intact.  Seti 
and  the  other  half  of  his  ill-gotten  gains  were 
left.  His  hands  were  about  to  be  struck  off', 
when  he  realised  of  how  little  account  his 
gold  would  be  without  them  ;  so  he  offered  it 
to  Selamlik  Pasha  for  their  sake.  The  pasha 
promised,  and  then,  having  found  tlie  money, 
serenely  prepared  the  execution.  For  his  anger 
was  great.  Was  not  the  idea  of  taxing  the 
dancing-girls  his  very  own,  the  most  origi- 
nal tax  ever  levied  in  Egypt  ?  And  to  have 
the  honour  of  it  filched  from  him  by  a  soldier 
of  Manfaloot — no,  Moliammed  Seti  should  be 
crucified! 

And  Seti,  the  pride  and  the  curse  of  his  regi- 
i30 


AND  THE   DRUM 

ment,  would  have  been  crucified  between  two 
palms  on  the  banks  of  the  river  had  it  not  been 
for  Fielding  Bey  the  Englishman — Fielding  of 
St.  Bartholomew's — who  had  burned  gloriously 
to  reform  Egypt  root  and  branch,  and  had  seen 
the  fire  of  his  desires  die  down.  Fielding  Bey 
saved  Seti,  but  not  with  backsheesh. 

Fielding  intervened.  He  knew  Selamlik 
Pasha  well,  and  the  secret  of  his  influence  over 
him  is  for  telling  elsewhere.  But  whatever  its 
source,  it  gave  Mahommed  Seti  his  life.  It 
gave  him  much  more,  for  it  expelled  him  from 
the  Khedive's  army.  Now  soldiers  without 
number,  gladly  risking  death,  had  deserted 
from  the  army  of  the  Khedive;  they  had 
bought  themselves  out  with  enormous  back- 
sheesh, they  had  been  thieves,  murderers,  pan- 
derers,  that  they  might  be  freed  from  service 
by  some  corrupt  pasha  or  bimbashi ;  but  no 
one  in  the  knowledge  of  the  world  had  ever 
been  expelled  from  the  army  of  the  Khedive. 

There  was  a  satanic  humour  in  the  situation 
pleasant  to  the  soul  of  Mahommed  Seti,  if  soul 
his  subconsciousness  might  be  called.  In  the 
presence  of  his  regiment,  drawn  up  in  the  Beit- 
el-Mal,  before  his  trembling  bimbashi,  whose 
lips  were  now  pale  with  terror  at  the  loss  of 
his  mascot,  Mahommed  Seti  was  drummed  out 
of  line,  out  of  his  regiment,  out  of  the  Beit-el- 

31 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

Mai.  It  was  opera  bouffe,  and  though  Seti 
could  not  know  what  opera  houjfe  was,  he  did 
know  that  it  was  a  ridiculous  fantasia,  and  he 
grinned  his  insolent  grin  all  the  way,  even  to 
the  corner  of  the  camel-market,  where  the 
drummer  and  the  sergeant  and  his  squad  turned 
back  from  administering  a  disgrace  they  would 
gladly  have  shared. 

Left  at  the  corner  of  the  camel-market,  Ma- 
hommed  Seti  planned  his  future.  At  first  it 
was  to  steal  a  camel  and  take  the  desert  for 
Berber.  Then  he  thought  of  the  English  ha- 
kim. Fielding  Bey,  who  had  saved  his  life. 
Now,  a  man  who  has  saved  your  life  once  may 
do  it  again ;  one  favour  is  always  the  promise 
of  another.  So  Seti,  with  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion, went  straight  to  the  house  of  Fielding 
Bey  and  sat  down  before  it  on  his  mat. 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  came  a  clatter 
of  tins  and  a  savoury  odour  throughout  Khar- 
toum to  its  farthest  precincts,  for  it  was  Ram- 
adan, and  no  man  ate  till  sunset.  Seti  smiled 
an  avid  smile,  and  waited.  At  last  he  got  up, 
turned  his  face  towards  Mecca,  and  said  his 
prayers.  Then  he  lifted  tlie  latcli  of  Fielding's 
hut,  entered,  eyed  the  medicine  bottles  and  the 
surgical  case  with  childish  apprehension,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  kitchen.      Tliere  he  for- 

32 


AND   THE   DRUM 

aged.  He  built  a  fire ;  his  courage  grew ;  he 
ran  to  the  bazaar,  and  came  back  with  an  arm- 
ful of  meats  and  vegetables. 

So  it  was  that  when  Fielding  returned  he 
found  Mahommed  Seti  and  a  savoury  mess 
awaiting  him.  Also  there  was  coffee  and  a 
bottle  of  brandy  which  Seti  had  looted  in  the 
bazaar.  In  one  doorway  stood  Fielding ;  in  an- 
other stood  JNlahommed  Seti,  with  the  same 
grin  which  had  served  his  purpose  all  the  way 
from  Cairo,  his  ugly  face  behind  it,  and  his  pro- 
digious shoulders  below  it,  and  the  huge  chest 
from  which  came  forth,  like  the  voice  of  a 
dove : 

"  God  give  thee  long  life,  saadat  el  bey ! " 
Now  an  M.D.  degree  and  a  course  in  St. 
Bartholomew's  Hospital  do  not  necessarily  give 
a  knowledge  of  the  human  soul,  though  the 
outlying  lands  of  the  earth  have  been  fattened 
by  those  who  thought  there  was  knowledge 
and  salvation  in  a  conquered  curriculum. 
Fielding  Bey,  however,  had  never  made  pre- 
tence of  understanding  the  Oriental  mind,  so 
he  discreetly  took  his  seat  and  made  no  re- 
marks. From  sheer  instinct,  however,  when 
he  came  to  the  coffee  he  threw  a  boot  which 
caught  Mahommed  Seti  in  the  middle  of  the 
chest,  and  said  roughly,  "  French,  not  Turk- 
ish, idiot ! " 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

Then  Mahommed  Seti  grinned,  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  happy ;  for  it  was  deep  in 
his  mind  that  that  was  the  Inglesi's  way  of 
offering  a  long  engagement.  In  any  case 
Seti  had  come  to  stay.  Three  times  he  made 
French  coffee  that  night  before  it  suited,  and 
the  language  of  Fielding  was  appropriate  in 
each  case.  At  last  a  boot,  a  native  drum, 
and  a  wood  sculpture  of  Pabst  the  lion-headed 
goddess,  established  perfect  relations  between 
them.  They  fell  into  their  places  of  master 
and  man  as  accurately  as  though  the  one  had 
smitten  and  the  other  served  for  twenty  years. 

The  only  acute  differences  they  had  were 
upon  two  points — the  cleaning  of  the  medi- 
cine bottles  and  surgical  instruments,  and  the 
looting.  But  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how 
Mahommed  Seti  took  the  kourbash  at  the 
hands  of  Fielding,  when  he  shied  from  the 
medicine  bottles.  He  could  have  broken,  or 
bent  double  with  one  twist,  the  weedy,  thin- 
chested  Fielding.  But  though  he  saw  a  deadly 
magic  and  the  evil  eye  in  every  stopper,  and 
though  to  him  the  surgical  instruments  were 
torturing  steels  which  the  dc\il  had  forged  for 
his  purposes,  he  conquered  his  own  prejudices 
so  fjir  as  to  assist  in  certain  bad  cases  which 
came  in  Fielding's  way  on  tlie  journey  down 
the  Nile. 

34 


AND  THE  DRUM 

The  looting  was  a  different  matter.  Had 
not  Mahommed  Seti  looted  all  his  life — looted 
from  his  native  village  to  the  borders  of  Kor- 
dofan  ?  Did  he  not  take  to  foray  as  a  wild  ass 
to  bersim  ?  Moreover,  as  little  Dicky  Dono- 
van said  humorously  yet  scornfully  when  he 
joined  them  at  Korosko :  "  What  should  a 
native  do  but  loot  who  came  from  JNIanfa- 
loot?" 

Dicky  had  a  prejudice  against  the  IMurderer, 
because  he  was  a  murderer;  and  Mahommed 
Seti  viewed  with  scorn  any  white  man  who 
was  not  Fielding  ;  much  more  so  one  who  was 
only  five  feet  and  a  trifle  over.  So  for  a  time 
there  was  no  sympathy  between  the  two.  13ut 
each  conquered  the  other  in  the  end.  Seti 
was  conquered  first. 

One  day  Dicky,  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
generosity — for  he  had  a  button  to  his  pocket 
— gave  Mahommed  Seti  a  handful  of  cigar- 
ettes. The  next  day  Seti  said  to  Fielding: 
"  Behold,  effendi,  God  has  given  thee  strong 
men  for  friends.  Thou  hast  Mahommed  Seti " 
— his  chest  blew  out  like  a  bellows — "  and 
thou  hast  Donovan  Pasha." 

Fielding  gi'unted.  He  was  not  a  fluent  man, 
save  in  forbidden  language,  and  Seti  added : 

"  Behold  thou,  saadat  el  bey,  who  opens  a 
man's  body  and  turns  over  his  heart  with  a 

35 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

sword-point,  and  sewing  him  up  with  silken 
cords  bids  him  live  again,  greatness  is  in  thy 
house !  Last  night  thy  fi-iend,  Donovan  Pasha, 
gave  into  my  hands  a  score  of  those  cigarettes 
which  are  like  the  smell  of  a  camel-yard.  In 
the  evening,  having  broken  bread  and  prayed, 
I  sat  down  at  the  door  of  the  barber  in  peace 
to  smoke,  as  becomes  a  man  who  loves  God 
and  His  benefits.  Five  times  I  puffed,  and 
then  I  stayed  my  lips,  for  why  should  a  man 
die  of  smoke  when  he  can  die  by  the  sword  ? 
But  there  are  many  men  in  Korosko  whose 
lives  are  not  as  clean  linen.  These  I  did  not 
love.  I  placed  in  their  hands  one  by  one  the 
cigarettes,  and  with  their  blessings  following 
me  I  lost  myself  in  the  dusk  and  waited." 

Mahommed  Seti  paused.  On  his  face  was 
a  smile  of  sardonic  retrospection. 

*'  Go  on,  you  fool !  "  grunted  Fielding. 

"  Nineteen  sick  men,  unworthy  followers  of 
the  Prophet,  thanked  Allah  in  the  Mosque 
to-day  that  their  lives  were  spared.  Donovan 
Pasha  is  a  great  man  and  a  strong,  effendi  ! 
We  be  three  strong  men  together !  " 

Dicky  Donovan's  conversion  to  a  lasting 
belief  in  Mahommed  Seti  came  a  year  later. 

The  thing  happened  at  a  little  sortie  from 
the  Nile.  Fielding  was  chief  medical  officer, 
and  Dicky,  for  the  moment,  was  unattached, 

36 


AND  THE   DRUM 

When  the  time  came  for  starting,  Mahommed 
Seti  brought  round  Fielding's  horse  and  Dicky 
Donovan's.  Now,  Mahommed  Seti  loved  a 
horse  as  well  as  a  Bagarra  Arab,  and  he  had 
come  to  love  Fielding's  waler  Bashi-Bazouk  as 
a  Farshoot  dog  loves  his  master.  And  Bashi- 
Bazouk  was  worthy  of  Seti's  love.  The  sand 
of  the  desert,  Seti's  breath  and  the  tail  of  his 
yelek  made  the  coat  of  Bashi-Bazouk  like  silk. 
It  was  the  joy  of  the  regiment,  and  the  regi- 
ment knew  that  Seti  had  added  a  new  chapter 
to  the  Koran  concerning  horses,  in  keeping 
with  JNIahomet's  own  famous  passage  : 

"By  the  chargers  that  pant. 
And  the  hoofs  that  strike  fire. 
And  the  scourers  at  dawn, 
Who  stir  up  the  dust  with  it. 
And  cleave  through  a  host  with  it !  " 

But  Mahomet's  phrases  were  recited  in  the 
mosque,  and  Seti's,  as  he  rubbed  Bashi-Bazouk 
witli  the  tail  of  his  yelek. 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  Seti 
loved  more  than  horses,  or  at  least  as  much. 
Life  to  him  was  one  long  possible  Donnybrook 
Fair.  That  was  why,  altliough  he  was  no 
longer  in  the  army,  when  Fielding  and  Dicky 
mounted  for  tlie  sortie  he  said  to  Fielding : 

"  Oh,  brother  of  Joshua,  and  all  tlie  figliters 
4  37 


THE   PRICE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

of  Israel,  I  have  a  bobtailed  Arab.      Permit 
me  to  ride  with  thee." 

And  Fielding  replied  :  "  You  will  fight  the 
barnyard  fowl  for  dinner ;  get  back  to  your 
stewpots." 

But  Seti  was  not  to  be  fobbed  off.  "  It  is 
written  that  the  Lord,  the  Great  One,  is  com- 
passionate and  merciful.  AVilt  thou  then, 
O  saadat " 

Fielding  interrupted  :  "  Go,  harry  the  onion- 
field  for  dinner.  You're  a  dog  of  a  slave,  and 
a  murderer  too :  you  must  pay  the  price  of 
that  grindstone ! " 

But  Seti  hung  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth  to 
the  fringe  of  Fielding's  good-nature — Fielding's 
words  only  were  sour  and  wratliful.  So  Seti 
grinned  and  said  :  "  For  the  grindstone,  behold 
it  sent  Ebn  Haroun  to  the  mercy  of  God. 
I^et  him  rest,  praise  be  to  God  !  " 

"  You  were  drummed  out  of  the  army.  You 
can't  fight,"^said  Fielding  again;  but  he  was 
smiling  under  his  long  moustache. 

"  Is  not  a  bobtailed  nag  sufficient  shame  ? 
Let  thy  friend  ride  the  bobtailed  nag  and  pay 
the  price  of  tlie  grindstone  and  the  drum," 
said  Seti. 

"  Fall  in ! "  rang  the  colonel's  command, 
and  Fielding,  giving  Seti  a  friendly  kick  in  the 
ribs,  galloped  away  to  the  troop. 

38 


AND  THE  DRUM 

Seti  turned  to  the  little  onion-garden.  His 
eye  harried  it  for  a  moment,  and  he  grinned. 
He  turned  to  the  doorway  where  a  stewpot 
rested,  and  his  mind  dwelt  cheerfully  on  the 
lamb  he  had  looted  for  Fielding's  dinner.  But 
last  of  all  his  eye  rested  upon  his  bobtailed 
Arab,  the  shameless  thing  in  an  Arab  country, 
where  every  horse  rears  his  tail  as  a  peacock 
spreads  his  feathers,  as  a  marching  Albanian 
lifts  his  foot.  The  bobtailed  Arab's  nose  w^as 
up,  his  stump  was  high.  A  hundred  times  he 
had  been  in  battle ;  he  was  welted  and  scarred 
like  a  shoemaker's  apron.  He  snorted  his  cry 
towards  the  dust  rising  like  a  surf  behind  the 
heels  of  the  colonel's  troop. 

Suddenly  Seti  answered  the  cry — he  an- 
swered the  cry  and  sprang  forward. 

That  was  how  in  the  midst  of  a  desperate 
melee  twenty  miles  away  on  the  road  to  Don- 
gola  little  Dicky  Donovan  saw  Seti  riding 
into  the  thick  of  the  fight  armed  only  with  a 
naboot  of  dom-wood,  his  call,  ''Allah  Akhar!" 
rising  like  a  hoarse-throated  bugle,  as  it  had 
risen  many  a  time  in  the  old  days  on  the  road 
from  Manfaloot.  Seti  and  his  bobtailed  Arab, 
two  shameless  ones,  worked  their  way  to  the 
front.  Not  Seti's  strong  right  arm  alone  and  his 
naboot  were  at  work,  but  the  bobtailed  Arab, 

39 


THE   rillCE   OF   THE   GRINDSTONE— 

like  an  iron-handed  razor- toothed  shrew,  struck 
and  bit  his  way,  his  eyes  blood-red  Hke  Seti's. 
The  superstitious  Dervishes  fell  back  before 
this  pair  of  demons  ;  for  their  madness  was 
like  the  madness  of  those  who  at  the  Dosah 
throw  themselves  beneath  the  feet  of  the 
Sheikh's  horse  by  the  mosque  of  El  Hassan  in 
Cairo.  The  bobtailed  Arab's  lips  were  drawn 
back  over  his  assaulting  teeth  in  a  horrible 
grin.  And  Seti  grinned  too,  the  grin  of  fury 
and  of  death. 

Fielding  did  not  know  how  it  was  that, 
falhng  wounded  from  his  horse,  he  Avas  caught 
by  strong  arms,  as  Bashi-Bazouk  cleared  him 
at  a  bound  and  broke  into  the  desert.  But 
Dicky  Donovan,  with  his  own  horse  lanced 
under  him,  knew  that  Seti  made  liim  mount 
the  bobtailed  Arab  with  Fielding  in  front  of 
him,  and  that  a  moment  later  they  had  joined 
the  little  band  retreating  to  Korosko,  liaving 
left  sixty  of  their  own  dead  on  the  field,  and 
six  times  that  number  of  Dervishes. 

It  was  Dicky  Donovan  who  cooked  Fickl- 
ing's  supper  that  night,  liaviug  liarried  the 
onion-field  and  fouglit  the  barnyard  fowl,  as 
Fielding  had  commanded  Seti. 

But  next  evening  at  sunset  Mahommed  Seti 
came  into  tlic  fort,  slaslicd  and  bleeding,  with 
Bashi-Bazouk  limping  heavily  after  him. 

40 


AND   THE   DRUM 

Fielding  said  that  Seti's  was  the  good  old 
game  for  which  A^.C.'s  were  the  reward — to  run 
terrible  risks  to  sa\'e  a  life  in  the  face  of  the 
enemy ;  but,  heretofore,  it  had  always  been  tlie 
life  of  a  man,  not  of  a  horse.  To  this  day  the 
Gippies  of  that  regiment  still  alive  do  not  un- 
derstand why  Seti  should  have  stayed  behind 
and  risked  his  life  to  save  a  horse  and  bring  him 
wounded  back  to  his  master.  But  little  Dicky 
Donovan  understood,  and  Fielding  vmderstood ; 
and  Fielding  never  afterward  mounted  Bashi- 
Bazouk  but  he  remembered.  It  was  IMahom- 
med  Seti  who  taught  him  the  cry  of  JMahomet: 

"  By  the  chargers  that  pant, 
And  the  hoofs  that  strike  fire, 
And  the  scourers  at  dawn, 
Who  stir  up  the  dust  with  it. 
And  cleave  through  a  host  with  it  !  " 

And  in  the  course  of  time  Mahommed  Seti 
managed  to  pay  the  price  of  the  grindstone 
and  also  of  the  drum. 


41 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOM- 
MED  SELIM 


^HE  business  began  during 
Ramadan ;  how  it  ended  and 
where  was  in  the  mouth  of 
every  soldier  between  Beni 
Souef  and  Dongola,  and  there 
was  not  a  mud  hut  or  a 
mosque  within  thirty  miles 
of  Mahommed  Selim's  home, 
not  a  khiassa  or  felucca  dropping 
anchor  for  gossip  and  garlic  below 
the  mudirieh,  but  knew  the  story  of  Soada, 
the  daughter  of  AVassef  the  camel-driver. 

Soada  was  pretty  and  upright,  with  a  full 
round  breast  and  a  slim  figure.  She  carried  a 
balass  of  water  on  lier  head  as  gracefully  as  a 
princess  a  tiara.  Tliis  was  remarked  by  occa- 
sional inspectors  making  their  official  rounds, 
and  by  more  than  one  Khowagah  putting  in 
with  his  dahabeah  where  the  village  maidens 
came  to  fill  their  water-jars.     Soada's  trinkets 

42 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

and  bracelets  were  perhaps  no  better  than 
those  of  her  companions,  but  her  one  garment 
was  of  the  Unen  of  Beni  Mazar,  as  good  as  that 
worn  by  the  Sheikh-el-beled  himself 

Wassef  the  camel- driver,  being  proud  of 
Soada,  gave  her  the  advantage  of  his  frequent 
good  fortune  in  desert  loot  and  Nile  back- 
sheesh. But  Wassef  was  a  hard  man  for  all 
that,  and  he  grew  bitter  and  morose  at  last, 
because  he  saw  that  camel-driving  must  suffer 
by  the  coming  of  the  railway.  Besides,  as  a 
man  gets  older  he  likes  the  season  of  Ramadan 
less,  for  he  must  fast  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
though  his  work  goes  on  ;  and,  with  broken 
sleep  having  his  meals  at  night,  it  is  ten  to 
one  he  gets  irritable. 

So  it  happened  that  one  evening  just  at  sun- 
set, Wassef  came  to  his  hut,  with  the  sun  like 
the  red  rim  of  a  huge  thumb-nail  in  the  sky 
behind  him,  ready  beyond  telling  for  his  break- 
fast, and  found  nothing.  On  his  way  home  he 
had  seen  before  the  houses  and  cafes  silent 
Mussulmans  with  cigarettes  and  matches  in 
their  fingers,  cooks  with  their  hands  on  the 
lids  of  the  cooking  pots,  where  the  dourha  and 
onions  boiled ;  but  here  outside  his  own  door- 
way there  was  no  odour,  and  there  was  silence 
within. 

"Now,  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,"  he 
43 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

muttered,  "  is  it  for  this  I  have  fed  the  girl 
and  clothed  her  with  linen  from  13eni  JMazar 
all  these  years  ! "  And  he  turned  upon  his 
heel,  and  kicked  a  yellow  cur  in  the  ribs ;  then 
he  went  to  the  nearest  cafe,  and  making  huge 
rolls  of  forced  meat  with  his  fingers  crammed 
them  into  his  mouth,  grunting  like  a  Berkshire 
boar.  Nor  did  his  anger  cease  thereafter,  for 
this  meal  of  meat  had  cost  him  five  piastres — 
the  second  meal  of  meat  in  a  week. 

As  Wassef  sat  on  the  mastaba  of  the  cafe, 
sullen  and  angry,  tlie  village  barber  whispered 
in  his  ear  that  Mahommed  Selim  and  Soada 
had  been  hunting  jackals  in  the  desert  all 
afternoon.  Hardly  had  the  barber  fled  from 
the  anger  of  AVassef,  when  a  glittering  kavass 
of  the  Mouffetish  at  Cairo  passed  by  on  a  black 
errand  of  conscription.  AVith  a  curse  Wassef 
felt  in  his  vest  for  his  purse,  and  called  to  the 
kavass — that  being  more  dreaded  in  Egypt 
than  the  plague. 

'i'hat  very  night  the  conscription  descended 
upon  Mahommed  Selim,  and  by  sunrise  he  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  house  of  the  Mamour 
with  twelve  otiiers,  to  begin  the  marcli  to 
Dongola.  Thougli  the  young  man's  father 
went  secretly  to  tlie  Mamour,  and  offered  him 
backsheesh,  even  to  the  tunc  of  a  feddan  of 
land,  the  Mamour  refused  to  accept  it.     Tliat 

44. 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHO]\I]\IED  SELIM 

was  a  very  peculiar  thing,  because  every  Egyp- 
tian official,  from  the  Khedive  down  to  the 
ghaffir  of  the  cane- fields,  took  backsheesh  in 
the  name  of  Allah. 

Wassef  the  camel-driver  was  the  cause.  He 
was  a  deep  man  and  a  strong;  and  it  was 
through  him  the  conscription  descended  upon 
INlahommed  Selim — "  son  of  a  burnt  father,"  as 
he  called  him — who  had  gone  shooting  jackals 
in  the  desert  with  his  daughter,  and  had  lost 
him  his  breakfast.  Wassef 's  rage  was  quiet 
but  effective,  for  he  had  whispered  to  some 
purpose  in  the  ear  of  the  JMamour  as  well  as 
in  that  of  the  dreaded  kav^ass  of  conscription. 
Afterwards,  he  had  gone  home  and  smiled 
at  Soada  his  daughter  when  she  lied  to  him 
about  the  sunset  breakfast. 

With  a  placid  smile  and  lips  that  murmured, 
"  Praise  be  to  God,"  the  malignant  camel- 
driver  watched  the  shrieking  women  of  the 
village  throwing  dust  on  their  heads  and  la- 
menting loudly  for  the  thirteen  young  men  of 
Beni  Souef  who  were  going  forth  never  to  re- 
turn— or  so  it  seemed  to  them ;  for  of  all  the 
herd  of  human  kine  driven  into  the  desert  be- 
fore whips  and  swords,  but  a  moiety  ever  re- 
turned, and  that  moiety  so  battered  that  their 
mothers  did  not  know  tliem.  Therefore,  at 
Beni   Souef  that  morning  women  wept,  and 

45 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOINIMED  SELIM 

men  looked  sullenly  upon  the  ground — all  but 
A¥assef  the  ciimel- driver. 

It  troubled  the  mind  of  Wassef  that  Ma- 
hommed  Selim  made  no  outcry  at  his  fate. 
He  was  still  more  puzzled  when  the  Mamour 
whispered  to  him  that  IMahommed  Selim  had 
told  the  kavass  and  his  own  father  that  since 
it  was  the  will  of  God,  then  the  will  of  God 
was  his  will,  and  he  would  go.  Wassef  re- 
plied that  the  Mamour  did  well  not  to  accept 
the  backsheesh  of  Mahommed  Selim's  father, 
for  the  JNIoufFetish  at  the  palace  of  Ismail  would 
have  heard  of  it,  and  there  would  have  been 
an  end  to  the  JNIamour.  It  was  quite  a  dif- 
ferent matter  when  it  was  backsheesh  for  send- 
ing Mahommed  Selim  to  the  Soudan. 

A¥ith  a  shameless  delight  Wassef  went  to 
the  door  of  his  own  home,  and,  calling  to 
Soada,  told  her  that  JNIahommed  Selim  was 
among  the  conscripts.  He  also  told  her  that 
the  young  man  was  willing  to  go,  and  that 
the  JNIamour  would  take  no  backsheesh  from 
his  father.  He  looked  to  see  her  burst  into 
tears  and  wailing,  but  she  only  stood  and 
looked  at  him  like  one  stricken  blind.  Wassef 
laughed,  and  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  out; 
for  wliat  should  he  know  of  the  look  in  a  wo- 
man's face — he  to  whom  most  women  were 
alike,  he  who  had  taken  dancing-girls  with  his 

46 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

camels  into  the  desert  many  a  time.  What 
should  he  know  of  that  love  which  springs 
once  in  every  woman's  heart,  be  she  fellah  or 
Pharaoh's  daughter. 

AVhen  he  had  gone,  Soada  groped  her  way 
blindly  to  the  door  and  out  into  the  roadway. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  she  only  said,  "  Mahom- 
med — ^lahommed  Selim !  "  Her  father's  words 
knelled  in  her  ear  that  her  lover  was  willing 
to  go,  and  she  kept  saying  brokenly,  "  Ma- 
hommed — Mahommed  Selim  ! "  As  the  mist 
left  her  eyes  she  saw  the  conscripts  go  by,  and 
Mahommed  Selim  was  in  the  rear  rank.  He 
saw  her  also,  but  he  kept  his  head  turned 
away,  taking  a  cigarette  from  young  Yusef  the 
drunken  ghaffir  as  they  passed  on. 

Unlike  the  manner  of  her  people,  Soada 
turned  and  went  back  into  her  house,  and 
threw  herself  upon  the  mud  floor,  and  put  the 
folds  of  her  garment  in  her  mouth  lest  she 
should  cry  out  in  her  agony.  A  whole  day 
she  lay  there  and  did  not  stir,  save  to  drink 
from  the  Avater-bottle  which  old  Fatima,  the 
maker  of  mats,  had  placed  by  her  side.  For 
Fatima  thought  of  the  far-off  time  when  she 
loved  Hassan  the  potter,  who  had  been  dragged 
from  his  wheel  by  a  kavass  of  conscription  and 
lost  among  the  sands  of  the  Libyan  desert; 
and  she  read  the  girl's  story. 

47 


THE  DESERTION  OF  jNiAHO^IMED  SELIM 

That  evening,  as  Wassef  the  camel-driver 
went  to  the  mosque  to  pray,  Fatima  cursed 
him,  because  now  all  the  village  laughed  se- 
cretly at  the  revenge  that  Wassef  had  taken 
upon  the  lover  of  his  daugliter.  A  few 
laughed  the  harder  because  they  knew  AVassef 
would  come  to  feel  it  had  been  better  to  have 
chained  Mahommed  Selim  to  a  barren  fig-tree 
and  kept  him  there  until  he  married  Soada, 
than  to  let  him  go.  He  had  mischievously 
sent  him  into  that  furnace  which  eats  the  Fel- 
laheen to  the  bones,  and  these  bones  there- 
after mark  white  the  road  of  the  Red  Sea 
caravans  and  the  track  of  the  Khedive's  sol- 
diers in  the  yellow  sands. 

When  Fatima  cursed  AVassef  he  turned  and 
spat  at  her ;  and  she  went  back  and  sat  on  the 
ground  beside  Soada,  and  mumbled  tags  from 
the  Koran  above  her  for  comfort.  Then  she 
ate  greedily  the  food  which  Soada  should  have 
eaten;  snatching  scraps  of  consolation  in  re- 
turn for  the  sympatliy  she  gave. 

The  long  night  went,  the  next  day  came, 
and  Soada  got  up  and  began  to  work  again. 
iVnd  the  months  went  by. 


48 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 


II 

One  evening,  on  a  day  which  had  been  ahnost 
too  hot  for  even  the  seller  of  liquorice-water  to 
go  by  calling  and  clanging,  Wassef  the  camel- 
driver  sat  at  the  door  of  a  malodorous  cafe, 
and  listened  to  a  wandering  welee  chanting 
the  Koran.  Wassef  was  in  an  ill-humour  : 
first,  because  the  day  had  been  so  hot ;  sec- 
ondly, because  he  had  sold  his  ten-months' 
camel  at  a  price  almost  within  the  bounds  of 
honesty  ;  and  thirdly,  because  a  score  of  rail- 
way contractors  and  subs,  were  camped  out- 
side the  town.  Also,  Soada  had  scarcely 
spoken  to  him  for  three  days  past. 

In  spite  of  all,  Soada  had  been  the  apple 
of  his  eye,  although  he  had  sworn  again  and 
again  that  next  to  a  firman  of  the  Sultan,  a 
ten-months'  camel  was  the  most  beautiful 
thing  on  earth.  He  was  in  a  bitter  humour. 
This  had  been  an  intermittent  disease  with 
him  almost  since  the  day  INIahommed  Selim 
had  been  swallowed  up  by  the  Soudan  ;  for, 
like  her  mother  before  her,  Soada  had  no 
mind  to  be  a  mat  for  his  feet.  Was  it  not 
even  said  that  Soada's  mother  was  descended 
from  an  English  slave  with  red  hair,  who  in 
the  terrible  disaster  at  Damietta  in  1805  had 

49 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

been  carried  away  into  captivity  on  the  Nile, 
where  he  married  a  fellah  woman  and  died  a 
good  IMussulman. 

Soada's  mother  had  had  red-brown  hair,  and 
not  black  as  becomes  a  fellah  woman  ;  but 
Wassef  was  proud  of  this  ancient  heritage  of 
red  hair,  which  belonged  to  a  Field-marshal  of 
Great  Britain — so  he  swore  by  the  beard  of  the 
Prophet.  That  is  why  he  had  not  beaten 
Soada  these  months  past  when  she  refused  to 
answer  him,  when  with  cold  stubbornness  she 
gave  him  his  meals  or  withheld  them  at  her 
will.  He  was  even  a  little  awed  by  hor  silent 
force  of  will,  and  at  last  he  had  to  ask  her 
humbly  for  a  savoury  dish  which  her  mother 
had  taught  her  to  make — a  dish  he  always  ate 
upon  the  birthday  of  JNIahomet  Ali,  who  had 
done  him  the  honour  to  flog  liim  with  his  own 
kourbash  for  filching  the  rations  of  his  Arab 
charger. 

But  this  particular  night  Wassef  was  bitter, 
and  watched  with  stolid  indifference  the  going 
down  of  the  sun,  the  time  wlien  he  usually 
said  his  prayers.  He  was  in  so  ill  a  humour 
that  he  would  willingly  have  met  his  old  en- 
emy, Yusef,  the  drunken  ghaffir,  and  settled 
their  long-standing  dispute  for  ever.  15ut 
Yusef  came  not  that  way.  He  was  lying 
drunk  with    hashish  outside  the  mosque   El 

50 


THE   DESERTIOxX    OF   MAHOMMED   SELIM 

Hassan,  with  a  letter  from  IVIahommed  Selim 
in  his  green  turban — for  Yusef  had  been  a  pil- 
gi'image  to  Mecca  and  might  wear  the  green 
turban. 

But  if  Yusef  came  not  by  the  cafe  where 
^Yassef  sat  glooming,  some  one  else  came 
who  quickly  roused  AVassef  from  his  phlegm. 
It  was  Donovan  Pasha,  the  young  English 
official,  who  had  sat  with  him  many  a  time  at 
the  door  of  his  hut  and  asked  him  questions 
about  Dongola  and  Berber  and  the  Soudanese. 
And  because  Dicky  spoke  Arabic,  and  was 
never  known  to  have  aught  to  do  with  the 
women  of  Beni  Souef,  he  had  been  welcome; 
and  none  the  less  because  he  never  frowned 
when  an  Arab  told  a  lie. 

'' N'ehar-ak  koom  said,  Mahommed  Wassef,"" 
said  Dicky;  and  sat  upon  a  bench  and  drew  a 
narghileh  to  him,  wiping  the  ivory  mouthpiece 
with  his  handkerchief. 

"  Nehcu'-ak  said,  saadat  el  basha"  answered 
VVassef,  and  touched  lips,  breast,  and  fore- 
head, with  his  hand.  Then  they  shook  hands, 
thumbs  up,  after  the  ancient  custom.  And 
once  more,  Wassef  touched  Iiis  breast,  his  lips 
and  his  forehead. 

They  sat  silent  too  long  for  Wassef's  pleas- 
ure, for  he  took  pride  in  what  he  was  pleased 
to  call    his  friendship   with   Donovan  Pasha 

51 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

and  he  could  see  his  watchful  neighbours  gath- 
ering at  a  little  distance.  It  did  not  suit  his 
book  that  they  two  sliould  not  talk  together. 

"  JNIay  Allah  take  them  to  his  mercy ! — -A 
regiment  was  cut  to  pieces  by  the  Dervishes 
at  Dongola  last  quarter  of  the  moon,"  he 
said. 

"  It  was  not  the  regiment  of  Mahommed 
Selim,"  Dicky  answered  slowly,  with  a  curious 
hard  note  in  his  voice. 

"  All  blessings  do  not  come  at  once — such 
is  the  will  of  God  !  "  answered  AVassef  with  a 
sneer. 

"  You  brother  of  asses,"  said  Dicky,  show- 
ing his  teeth  a  little,  "  you  brother  of  asses  of 
Bagdad !  " 

"  Saadat  el  basha !"  exclaimed  Wassef,  angry 
and  dumbfounded. 

"  You  had  better  liave  gone  yourself,  and 
left  INlahommed  Sehm  your  camels  and  your 
daugliter,"  continued  Dicky,  his  eyes  straight 
upon  Wassef  s. 

"  God  knows  your  meaning,"  said  Wassef 
in  a  sudden  friglit;  for  the  Knglisliman's 
tongue  was  straight,  as  he  well  knew. 

' '  They  sneer  at  you  behind  your  back,  Ma- 
hommed Wassef  No  man  in  the  village  dare 
tell  you,  for  you  have  no  friends,  but  I  tell 
you,  that  you  may  save  Soada  beibre  it  is  too 

52 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

late.  JMahommed  Selim  lives;  or  lived  last 
quarter  of  the  moon,  so  says  Yusef,  theghaffir. 
Sell  your  ten-months'  camel,  buy  the  lad  out, 
and  bring  him  back  to  Soada." 

"  Saadat ! "  said  Wassef,  in  a  quick  fear,  and 
dropped  the  stem  of  the  narghileh,  and  got  to 
his  feet.     "  Saadat  el  basha ! " 

"  Before  the  Nile  falls  and  you  may  plant 
yonder  fields  with  onions,"  answered  Dicky, 
jerking  his  head  towards  the  flooded  valley, 
"  her  time  will  be  come  !  " 

Wassef's  lips  were  drawn  like  shrivelled 
parchment  over  his  red  giniis,  the  fingers  of 
his  right  hand  fumbled  in  his  robe. 

"  There's  no  one  to  kill — keep  quiet !  "  said 
Dicky. 

But  Wassef  saw  near  by  the  faces  of  the 
villagers,  and  on  every  face  he  thought  he  read 
a  smile,  a  sneer;  though  in  truth  none  sneered, 
for  they  were  afraid  of  his  terrible  anger.  INIad 
with  fury  he  snatched  the  turban  from  his  head 
and  threw  it  on  the  ground.  Then  suddenly 
he  gave  one  cry,  "  Allah  !  "  a  vibrant  clack  like 
a  pistol-shot,  for  he  saw  Yusef  the  drunken 
ghafiir  coming  down  the  road. 

Yusef  heard  that  cry  of  ''  Allah  f  and 
he  knew  that  the  hour  had  come  for  set- 
tling old  scores.  The  hashish  clouds  lifted 
from  his  brain,  and  he  gripped  his  naboot  of 
5  53 

^  uu  13  NORMAL  S^^^"^' 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

the  hard  wood  of  the  dom-pahn,  and,  with  a 
cry  hke  a  wolf,  came  on. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Wassef  the 
camel-driver  if  he  had  not  taken  the  turban 
from  his  head,  for  before  he  could  reach  Yusef 
with  his  dagger,  he  went  down,  his  skull  crack- 
ing like  the  top  of  an  egg  under  a  spoon. 

Ill 

Thus  it  was  that  Soada  was  left  to  fight  her 
battle  alone.  She  did  not  weep  nor  wail  when 
AYassef's  body  was  brought  home  and  the  mo- 
ghassil  and  hanouti  came  to  do  their  offices. 
She  did  not  smear  her  hair  with  mud,  nor  was 
she  moved  by  the  wailing  of  the  mourning 
women  nor  the  chanters  of  the  Koran.  She 
only  said  to  Fatima  when  all  was  over,  "  It  is 
well ;  he  is  gone  from  my  woe  to  the  mercy  of 
God!  Praise  be  to  God!"  And  she  held 
her  liead  high  in  the  village  still,  though  her 
heart  was  in  the  dust. 

She  would  have  borne  licr  trouble  alone  to 
the  end,  but  that  slie  was  bitten  on  the  arm 
by  one  of  her  father's  camels  tlie  day  they 
were  sold  in  the  market-place.  Then,  helpless 
and  sufficring  and  fevered,  she  yielded  to  the 
thrice-repeated  request  of  Dicky  Donovan,  and 
was  taken  to  the  hospital  at  Assiout,  which 

54 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

Fielding  Bey,  Dicky's  friend,  had  helped  to 
found. 

But  Soada,  as  her  time  drew  near  and  the 
terror  of  it  stirred  her  heart,  cast  restless  eyes 
upon  the  whitewashed  walls  and  rough  floors 
of  the  hospital.  She  longed  for  the  mud  hut 
at  Beni  Souef,  and  the  smell  of  the  river  and 
the  little  field  of  onions  she  planted  every 
year.  Day  by  day  she  grew  harder  of  heart 
against  those  who  held  her  in  the  hospital — for 
to  her  it  was  but  a  prison.  She  would  not 
look  when  the  doctor  came,  and  she  would  not 
answer,  but  kept  her  eyes  closed  ;  and  she  did 
not  shrink  when  they  dressed  the  arm  so 
cruelly  wounded  by  the  camel's  teeth,  but  lay 
still  and  dumb. 

Now,  a  strange  thing  happened,  for  her  hair 
which  had  been  so  black  turned  brown,  and 
grew  browner  and  browner  till  it  vv^as  like  the 
hair  of  her  mother,  who,  so  the  Niline  folk  said, 
was  descended  from  the  English  soldier-slave 
with  red  hair. 

Fielding  Bey  and  Dicky  came  to  see  her  in 
hospital  once  before  they  returned  to  Cairo; 
but  Soada  would  not  even  speak  to  them, 
though  she  smiled  Avhen  they  spoke  to  her ; 
and  no  one  else  ever  saw  her  smile  during 
the  days  she  spent  in  that  hospital  with  tlie 
red  floor  and  white  walls  and  the  lazy  watch- 

55 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

man  .walking  up  and  down  before  the  door. 
She  kept  her  eyes  closed  in  the  daytime;  but  at 
night  they  were  always  open — always.  Pict- 
ures of  all  she  had  lived  and  seen  came  back 
to  her  then — pictures  of  days  long  before  Ma- 
hommed  Selim  came  into  her  life.  JNIahom- 
med  Selim  !  She  never  spoke  the  words  now, 
but  whenever  she  thought  them  her  heart 
shrank  in  pain.  Mahommed  Selim  had  gone 
like  a  coward  into  the  desert,  leaving  her 
alone. 

Her  mind  dwelt  on  the  little  mud  hut  and 
the  onion  field,  and  she  saw  down  by  the  fore- 
shore of  the  river  the  great  khiassas  from  As- 
souan and  Luxor  laden  with  cotton  or  dourha 
or  sugar-cane,  their  bent  prows  hooked  in  the 
Nile  mud.  She  saw  again  the  little  fires  built 
along  the  shore  and  atop  of  the  piles  of  grain, 
round  which  sat  the  white,  the  black,  and  the 
yellow-robed  riverine  folk  in  the  crimson  glare  ; 
while  from  the  banks  came  the  cry,  "  Alla- 
hdJjj,  '///  alla-Jialj)  I "  as  stalwart  young  Arabs 
drew  in  from  the  current  to  tlie  bank  some 
stub})orn,  overloaded  khiassa.  She  heard  the 
snarl  of  tlie  camels  as  tlicy  knelt  down  before 
her  father's  hut  to  rest  ])efore  the  journey  into 
the  yellow  plains  of  sand  beyond.  She  saw 
the  seller  of  sweetmeats  go  by  calling — calling. 
She  heard  the  droning  of  the  children  in  the 

5Q 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

village  school  behind  the  hut,  the  dull  clatter 
of  Arabic  consonants  galloping  through  the 
Koran.  She  saw  the  moon — the  full  moon^ — 
upon  the  Nile,  the  wide  acreage  of  silver  water 
before  the  golden-yellow  and  yellow-purple  of 
the  Libyan  hills  beyond. 

She  saw  through  her  tears  the  sweet  mirage 
of  home,  and  her  heart  rebelled  against  the 
prison  where  she  lay.  What  should  she  know 
of  hospitals — she  whose  medicaments  had  been 
herbs  got  from  the  Nile  valley  and  the  cool 
Nile  mud  ?  Was  it  not  the  will  of  God  if  we 
lived  or  the  will  of  God  if  we  died  ?  Did  we 
not  all  lie  in  the  great  mantle  of  the  mercy  of 
God,  ready  to  be  lifted  up  or  to  be  set  down 
as  He  willed?  They  had  prisoned  her  here; 
there  were  bars  upon  the  windows,  there  were 
watchmen  at  the  door. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  the 
end  of  it  all  came.  She  stole  out  over  the 
bodies  of  the  sleeping  watchmen,  out  into  the 
dusty  road  under  the  palms,  down  to  the  water 
side,  to  the  Nile — the  path  leading  homewards. 
She  must  go  down  the  Nile,  hiding  by  day, 
travelling  by  night — the  homing  bird  with  a 
broken  wing — back  to  the  hut  where  she  had 
lived  so  long  with  W^assef  tlie  camel-driver ; 
back  where  she  could  lie  in  the  dusk  of  her 
windowless  home,  shutting  out  the  world  from 

57 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAH0M:\IED  SELIM 

her  solitude.  There  she  could  bear  the  agony 
of  her  hour. 

Drinking  the  water  of  the  Nile,  eating  the 
crumbs  of  dourha  bread  she  had  brouglit  from 
the  hospital,  getting  an  onion  from  a  field, 
chewing  shreds  of  sugar-cane,  hiding  by  day 
and  trudging  on  by  night,  hourly  growing 
weaker,  she  struggled  towards  Beni  Souef. 
Fifty — forty — thirty — ten — five  miles  !  Oh ! 
the  last  two  days,  her  head  so  hot  and  her 
brain  bursting,  and  a  thousand  fancies  swim- 
ming before  her  ey^s,  her  heart  fluttering, 
fluttering — stopping,  going  on — stopping,  go- 
ing on. 

It  was  only  the  sound  of  the  river — the 
Nile,  INIother  of  Egypt,  crooning  to  her  dis- 
ordered spirit,  whicli  kept  her  on  her  feet. 
Five  miles,  four  miles,  three  miles,  two,  and 
then — she  never  quite  remembered  how  she 
came  to  the  hut  where  she  was  born !  Two 
miles— two  hours  of  incredible  agony,  now 
running,  now  leaning  against  a  palm  tree, 
now  dropping  to  her  knees,  now  fighting  on 
and  on,  she  came  at  last  to  the  one  spot  in 
the  world  where  slie  could  die  in  peace. 

As   she   staggered,   stumbled,  through   the 

^Tillage,  Yusef,  the  drunken  ghaflir,  saw  her. 

lie  did  not  dare  speak  to  her,  for  had  he  not 

killed  her  father,  and  had  he  not  bought  him- 

68 


THE   DESERTION   OF   MAHOMMEU   SELIM 

self  free  of  punishment  from  the  JNIudir  ?  So 
he  ran  to  old  Fatima  and  knocked  upon  her 
door  with  his  naboot,  crying:  "In  the  name 
of  Allah  get  thee  to  the  hut  of  Wassef  the 
camel-driver ! " 

Thus  it  was  that  Soada,  in  her  agony,  heard 
a  voice  say  out  of  the  infinite  distance  :  "  All 
praise  to  Allah,  he  hath  even  now  the  strength 
of  a  year- old  child  !  " 

IV 

That  night  at  sunset,  as  Soada  lay  upon  the 
sheepskin  spread  for  her,  with  the  child  nestled 
between  her  arm  and  her  breast,  a  figure  dark- 
ened the  doorway,  and  old  Fatima  cried  out : 

"  INIahommed  Selim !  " 

AVith  a  gasping  sound  Soada  gathered  the 
child  quickly  to  her  breast,  and  shrank  back 
to  the  wall.  This  surely  was  the  ghost  of 
Mahommed  Selim — this  gaunt,  stooping  figure 
covered  with  dust ! 

"  Soada,  in  the  name  of  Allah  the  Compas- 
sionate, the  JNIerciful,  Soada,  beautiful  one  !  " 

INIahommed  Selim,  once  the  lithe,  the 
straight,  the  graceful,  now  bent,  awkward, 
fevered,  all  the  old  daring  gone  from  him, 
stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  humbled 
before  the  motherhood  in  his  sight. 

59 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

"Brother  of  jackals,"  cried  old  Fatima, 
"  what  dost  thou  here  ?  What  dost  thou 
here,  dog  of  dogs  !  "     She  spat  at  him. 

He  took  no  notice.  "  Soada,"  he  said 
eagerly,  prayerfully,  and  his  voice,  though 
hoarse,  was  softer  than  she  had  ever  heard 
it.     "  Soada,  I  have   come  through  death  to 

thee Listen,    Soada !     At  night,   when 

sleep  was  upon  the  barrack-house,  I  stole  out 
to  come  to  thee.  jNIy  heart  had  been  hard.  I 
had  not  known  how  much  I  loved  thee " 

Soada  interrupted  him.  "  AVhat  dost  thou 
know  of  love,  JMahommed  Selim  ?  The  blood 
of  the  dead  cries  from  the  ground." 

He  came  a  step  nearer.  "  The  blood  of 
Wassef  the  camel-driver  is  upon  my  head," 
he  said.  "In  the  desert  there  came  news  of 
it.  In  the  desert,  even  while  we  fought  the 
wild  tribes,  one  to  ten,  a  voice  kept  crying  in 
my  ear,  even  as  thou  hast  cried,  '  AVhat  didst 
thou  know  of  love,  INIahommed  Selim  ! '  One 
by  one  the  men  of  Beni  Souef  fell  round  me ; 
one  by  one  they  spoke  of  their  village  and  of 
their  women,  and  begged  for  a  drop  of  water, 
and  died.  xVnd  my  heart  grew  hot  within  me, 
and  a  spirit  kept  whispering  in  my  ear,  '  Ma- 
hommed  Selim,  think  of  the  \'illage  thou  liast 
shamed,  of  Soada  thou  hast  wronged !  No 
drop  of  water  shall  clieer  thy  soul  in  dying  ! ' " 

60 


THE  DESERTION  OF  ]\IAHOMMED  SELLM 

Fatima  and  Soada  listened  now  with  bated 
breath,  for  this  was  the  voice  of  one  who  had 
drunk  the  vinegar  and  gall  of  life. 

"  When  the  day  was  done,  and  sleep  was 
upon  the  barrack- house,  my  heart  waked  up 
and  I  knew  that  I  loved  Soada  as  I  had  never 
loved  her.  I  ran  into  the  desert,  and  the 
jackals  flew  before  me^outcasts  of  the  desert, 
they  and  I.  Coming  to  the  tomb  of  Amshar 
the  sheikh,  by  which  was  a  well,  there  I  found 
a  train  of  camels.  One  of  these  I  stole,  and 
again  I  ran  into  the  desert,  and  left  the  jackals 
behind.  Hour  after  hour,  day  and  night,  I 
rode  on.  But  faintness  was  upon  me,  and 
dreams  came.  For  though  only  the  sands 
were  before  me,  I  seemed  to  watch  the  Nile 
running — running,  and  thou  beside  it,  hasten- 
ing with  it,  hastening,  hastening  towards  thy 
home.  And  Allah  put  a  thorn  into  my  heart, 
that  a  sharp  pain  went  through  my  body — and 
at  last  I  fell." 

Soada's  eyes  were  on  him  now  with  a  strange, 
swimming  brilliancy. 

"  Mahommed,  JNIahommed  Sehm,  Allah 
touched  thine  eyes  that  thou  didst  see  truly," 
she  said  eagerly. 

"  Speak  not  till  I  have  done,"  he  answered. 
"  When  I  waked  again  I  was  alone  in  the  des- 
ert, no  food,  no  water,  and  the  dead  camel  be- 

Gl 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAH0:\LA1ED  SELIM 

side  me.  But  I  had  no  fear.  '  If  it  be  God's 
will,'  said  I,  '  then  I  shall  come  mito  Soada. 
If  it  be  not  God's  will,  so  be  it :  for  are  we  not 
on  the  cushion  of  His  mercy,  to  sleep  or  to 
wake,  to  live  or  to  die  ? ' " 

He  paused  tottering,  and  presently  sank 
upon  the  gi-ound,  his  hands  dropped  before 
him,  his  head  bent  down.  Old  Fatima  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Brother  of  vultures  didst  thou  go  forth  ; 
brother  of  eagles  dost  thou  return,"  she  said. 
"  Eat,  drink,  in  the  house  of  thy  child  and  its 
mother." 

"  Shall  the  unforgiven  eat  or  drink  ? "  he 
said,  and  he  rocked  his  body  to  and  fro,  like 
one  who  chants  the  Koran  in  a  corner  of  El 
Azhar,  forgetting  and  forgotten. 

Soada's  eyes  were  on  him  now  as  though 
they  might  never  leave  him  again ;  and  she 
dragged  herself  little  by  little  towards  him, 
herself  and  the  child — little  by  little,  until  at 
last  she  touched  his  feet,  and  the  child's  face 
was  turned  towards  him  from  its  mother's 
breast. 

"  Thou  art  my  love,  Maliommcd  Selim,"  slie 
said.  He  raised  his  head  from  his  hands,  a 
hunger  of  desire  in  his  face. 

"  Thou  art  my  lord,"  she  added  :  "  art  thou 
not  forgiven  ?     The  little   oue    is   thine   and 

62 


TKE  DESERTION  OF  MAHO:\IMED  SELi:\I 

mine,"  she  whispered.     "  Wilt  thou  not  speak 
to  him  ? " 

"Lest  Alhih  should  strike  me  with  bhnd- 
ness  and  dry  up  the  juice  of  my  veins,  I  will 
not  touch  thee  or  the  child  until  all  be  righted. 
Food  will  I  not  eat,  nor  water  drink  until  thou 
art  mine — by  the  law  of  the  Prophet,  mine." 

Laying  down  the  water-jar,  and  the  plate  of 
dourha  bread,  old  Fatima  gathered  her  robe 
about  her,  and  cried  as  she  ran  from  the  house : 
"^larriasfe  and  fontasia  thou  shalt  have  this 
hour." 

The  stiffness  seemed  to  pass  from  her  bones 
as  she  ran  through  the  village  to  the  house  of 
the  omdah.  Her  voice,  lifting  shrilly,  sang 
the  Song  of  Haleel,  the  song  of  the  newly- 
married,  till  it  met  the  chant  of  the  Muezzin 
on  the  tower  of  the  mosque  El  Hassan,  and 
mingled  with  it,  dying  away  over  the  fields  of 
bersim  and  the  swift-flowing  Nile. 

That  night  Mahommed  Selim  and  Soada  the 
daughter  of  Wassef  the  camel-driver  were  mar- 
ried,  but  the  only  fantasia  they  held  was  their 
own  low  laughter  over  the  child.  In  the  vil- 
lage, however,  people  were  little  moved  to 
smile,  for  they  knew  that  ISIahommed  Selim 
was  a  deserter  fi'om  the  army  of  the  Khedive 
at  Dongola,  and  that  meant  death.  But  no 
one  told  Soada  this,  and  she  did  not  think ;  she 

63 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHOMMED  SELIM 

was  content  to  rest  in  the  fleeting  dream  un- 
disturbed. 

"Give  them  twenty- four  hours,"  said  the 
black- visaged  fat  sergeant  of  cavahy  come  to 
arrest  Mahommed  Sehm  for  desertion. 

The  father  of  Mahommed  Sehm  again  of- 
fered the  JNIamour  a  feddan  of  land  if  the 
young  man  might  go  free,  and  to  the  sergeant 
he  offered  a  she-camel  and  a  buffalo.  To  no 
purpose.  It  was  JVIahommed  Selim  himself 
who  saved  his  father's  goods  to  him.  He  sent 
this  word  to  the  sergeant  by  Yusef  the  drunken 
ghaffir  :  "  Give  me  to  another  sunset  and  sun- 
rise, and  what  I  have  is  thine :  three  black 
donkeys  of  Assiout  rented  to  old  Abdullah 
the  sarraf." 

Because  with  this  offer  he  should  not  only 
have  backsheesh  but  the  man  also,  the  fat  ser- 
geant gave  him  leave. 

When  the  time  was  up,  and  Mahommed 
Selim  drew  Soada's  face  to  his  breast,  he  knew 
that  it  was  the  last  look  and  last  embrace. 

"  I  am  going  back,"  he  said ;  "  my  place  is 
empty  at  Dongola." 

"  No,  no,  tliou  shalt  not  go,"  slie  cried.  "  See 
how  the  little  one  loves  thee,"  and,  sobbing,  she 
held  the  child  up  to  him. 

But  lie  spoke  softly  to  her,  and  at  last  she 
said : 

64 


THE  DESERTION  OF  INIAHOMMED  SELIM 

"  Kiss  me,  JMahommed  Selim.  Behold  now 
thy  discharge  shall  be  bought  from  the  palace 
of  the  Khedive,  and  soon  thou  wilt  return," 
she  cried. 

"If  it  be  the  will  of  God,"  he  answered; 
"  but  the  look  of  thine  eyes  I  will  take  with 
me,  and  the  face  of  the  child  here."  He  thrust 
a  finger  into  the  palm  of  the  child,  and  the  lit- 
tle dark  hand  closed  round  it.  But  when  he 
would  have  taken  it  away,  the  little  hand  still 
clung,  though  the  eyes  were  scarce  opened 
upon  life. 

"  See,  ^lahommed  Selim,"  Soada  cried,  "  he 
would  go  with  thee." 

"  He  shall  come  to  me  one  day,  by  the  mercy 
of  God,"  answered  Mahommed  Selim. 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  market-place  and 
gave  himself  up  to  the  fat  sergeant.  As  they 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village  a  sorry 
camel  came  with  a  sprawling  gallop  after  them, 
and  swaying  and  rolling  above  it  was  Yusef 
the  drunken  ghaffir,  his  naboot  of  dom-wood 
across  his  knees. 

"  What  dost  thou  come  for,  friend  of  the 
mercy  of  God  ?  "  asked  Mahommed  Selim. 

*'  To  be  thy  messenger,  praise  be  to  God ! " 
answered  Yusef,  swinging  his  water-bottle  clear 
for  a  drink. 


65 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAH0M:\1ED  SELIM 


V 

In  Egypt,  the  longest  way  round  is  not  the 
shortest  way  home,  and  that  was  why  Ma- 
hommed  Sehm's  court-martial  took  just  three 
minutes  and  a  half;  and  the  bimbashi  who 
judged  him  found  even  that  too  long,  for  he 
yawned  in  the  deserter's  face  as  he  condemned 
him  to  death. 

INIahommed  Selim  showed  no  feeling  when 
the  sentence  was  pronounced.  His  face  had 
an  apathetic  look.  It  seemed  as  if  it  were  all 
one  to  him.  15ut  when  they  had  turned  him 
round  to  march  to  the  shed  where  he  was  to 
be  kept,  till  hung  hke  a  pig  at  sunrise,  his  eyes 
glanced  about  restlessly.  For  even  as  the 
sentence  had  been  pronounced  a  new  idea  had 
come  into  his  mind.  Over  the  heads  of  the 
Gippy  soldiers,  with  their  pipcstcm  legs,  his 
look  flashed  eagerly,  then  a  little  painfully — 
then  suddenly  stayed,  for  it  rested  on  the  green 
turban  of  Yusef,  the  drunken  ghaffir.  Yusefs 
eyes  were  almost  shut ;  his  face  had  the  gray 
look  of  fresh-killed  veal,  for  he  had  come  from 
an  awful  debauch  of  hashisli. 

"yilla///  Allah  r'  cried  Maliommcd  Sclim, 
for  that  was  tlie  sound  whicli  always  waked 
the  torpid  brain  of  Yusef,  since  Wassef  the 


THE  DESERTION  OF  INIAHOMMED  SELIM 

camel-driver's  skull  had  crackled  under  his 
naboot. 

Yusef  s  wide  shoulders  straightened  back,  his 
tongue  licked  his  lips,  his  eyes  stared  before 
him,  his  throat  was  dry.  He  licked  his  lips 
again.     *'  Allah  !  "  he  cried,  and  ran  forward. 

The  soldiers  thrust  Yusef  back.  INIahom- 
med  Selim  turned  and  whispered  to  the  ser- 
geant. 

"  Backsheesh  ! "  he  said  ;  "  my  gray  Arab 
for  a  word  with  Yusef  the  ghaffir." 

"  Malaish!''  said  the  sergeant ;  and  the  sol- 
diers cleared  a  way  for  Yusef.  • 

The  palms  of  the  men  from  Beni  Souef  met 
once,  twice,  thrice;  they  touched  their  lips, 
their  breasts,  their  foreheads,  with  their  hands, 
three  times.  Then  ISIahommed  Selim  fell 
upon  the  breast  of  Yusef  and  embraced  him. 
Doing  so  he  whispered  in  his  ear : 

'"  In  the  name  of  Allah,  tell  Soada  I  died 
fighting  the  Dervishes  !  " 

"  So  be  it,  in  God's  name  ! "  said  Yusef. 
*'  A  safe  journey  to  you,  brother  of  giants  ! " 

Next  morning  at  sunrise,  between  two  dom- 
palms,  stood  JNIahommed  Selim  ;  but  scarce  a 
handful  of  the  soldiers  sent  to  see  liim  die 
laughed  when  the  rope  was  thrown  over  his 
head.     For  his  story  had  gone  abroad,  and  it 

67 


THE  DESERTION  OF  MAHO.AIMED  SELIM 

was  said  that  he  was  mad — none  but  a  mad- 
man would  throw  away  his  hfe  for  a  fellah 
woman.  And  was  it  not  ^\Titten  that  a  mad- 
inan  was  one  beloved  of  Allah,  who  had  taken 
his  spirit  up  into  heaven,  leaving  only  the  dis- 
ordered body  behind  ? 

If,  at  the  last  moment,  Mahommed  Sclim 
had  but  cried  out,  "  I  am  mad ;  with  my  eyes 
I  have  seen  God ! "  no  man  would  have 
touched  the  rope  that  hanged  him  up  tliat 
day. 

But,  according  to  the  sacred  custom,  he  only 
asked  for  af  bowl  of  water,  drank  it,  said  ^'Al- 
lah !  "  and  bowed  his  head  three  times  towards 
JVIecca — and  bowed  his  head  no  more. 

Before  another  quarter  was  added  to  the 
moon,  Yusef,  the  drunken  ghaffir,  at  the  door 
of  Soada's  hut  in  Beni  Souef,  told  old  Fatima 
the  most  wonderful  tale,  how  JNIahommed  Se- 
lim  had  died  on  his  sheepskin,  having  killed 
ten  Dervishes  with  his  own  hand ;  and  that  a 
whole  regiment  had  attended  his  funeral. 

This  is  to  the  credit  of  Yusefs  account,  that 
the  last  half  of  his  statement  was  no  lie. 


68 


ON  THE  REEF  OF  NORMAN'S 
WOE 


'  It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 
That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  Uttle  daughter 
To  bear  him  company. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  woe  !  " 


NLY  it  was  not  the  schooner 
Hesperus,   and   she   did   not 
sail  the  wintry  sea.     It  was 
the  stern- wheeled  tub  Ainen- 
hotep,  who  churned  her  way 
up  and  down  the  Nile,  scrap- 
ing over  sandbanks,  butting 
shores   with    gaiety   embar- 
assnig— for  it  was  the  time  of  chol- 
era, just  before  the  annual  rise  of  the 
Nile.     Fielding   Bey,   the   skipper,   had 
not  taken  his  little  daughter,  for  he  had  none; 
but  he  had  taken  little  Dicky  Donovan,  who 
6  69 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

had  been  in  at  least  three  departments  of  the 
Government,  with  advantage  to  all. 

Dicky  was  dining  with  Fielding  at  the  Turf 
Club,  when  a  telegram  came  saying  that  chol- 
era had  appeared  at  a  certain  village  on  the 
Nile.  Fielding  had  dreaded  this,  had  tried  to 
make  preparation  for  it,  had  begged  of  the 
Government  this  reform  and  that — to  no  pur- 
pose. He  knew  that  the  saving  of  the  coun- 
try from  an  epidemic  lay  with  his  handful  of 
Englishmen  and  the  faithful  native  officials  ; 
but  chiefly  with  the  Enghshmen.  He  was  pre- 
pared only  as  a  forlorn  hope  is  prepared,  with 
energy,  with  personal  courage,  with  knowledge ; 
and  never  were  these  more  needed. 

With  the  telegram  in  his  hand,  he  thought 
of  his  few  English  assistants,  and  sighed ;  for 
the  game  they  would  play  was  the  game  of 
Hercules  and  Death  over  the  body  of  Al- 
cestis. 

Dicky  noted  the  sigh,  read  the  telegram, 
drank  another  glass  of  claret,  lighted  a  cig- 
arette, drew  his  coffee  to  him,  and  said; 
"The  Khedive  is  away — I'm  off"  duty;  take 
me. 

Fielding  looked  surprised,  yet  with  an  eye 
of  hope.  If  there  was  one  man  in  Egypt  who 
could  do  useful  work  in  the  business,  it  was 
little  Dicky  Donovan,  who  had  a  way  with 

10 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NOKMAN'S   WOE 

natives  such  as  no  man  ever  had  in  Egypt; 
who  knew  no  fear  of  anything  mortal ;  who 
was  as  tireless  as  a  beaver,  as  keen- minded  as 
a  lynx  is  sharp-eyed.  It  was  said  to  Dicky's 
discredit  that  he  had  no  heart,  but  Fielding 
knew  better.  When  Dicky  offered  himself 
now,  Fielding  said,  almost  feverishly  : 

"  But,  dear  old  D.,  you  don't  see '* 

"Don't  I?— WeU,  then, 

*  What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight?— 
Ohj  tell  your  poor  blind  boy  ]  *  " 

What  Fielding  told  him  did  not  alter  his 
intention,  nor  was  it  Fielding's  wish  that  it 
should,  though  he  felt  it  right  to  warn  the 
little  man  what  sort  of  thing  was  in  store  for 
them. 

"  As  if  I  don't  know,  old  hmeburner !"  an- 
swered Dicky  coolly. 

In  an  hour  they  were  on  the  Amenhotep^ 
and  in  two  hours  they  were  on  their  way — a 
floating  hospital — to  the  infected  district  of 
Kalamoun.  There  the  troubles  began.  It 
wasn't  the  heat,  and  it  wasn't  the  work,  and 
it  wasn't  the  everlasting  care  of  the  sick:  it 
was  the  ceaseless  hunt  for  the  disease-stricken, 
the  still,  tireless  opposition  of  the  natives,  the 
remorseless  deception,  the  hopeless  struggle 
against  the  covert  odds.     With  nothing  be- 

71 


(3N   THE    KEEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

hind :  no  support  from  the  Government,  no 
adequate  suppHes,  few  capable  men;  and  all 
the  time  the  dead,  inert,  dust-powdered  air; 
the  offices  of  policeman,  doctor,  apothecary, 
even  undertaker  and  grave-digger,  to  perform ; 
and  the  endless  weeks  of  it  all.  A  handful  of 
good  men  under  two  leaders  of  nerve,  con- 
science, and  ability,  to  fight  an  invisible  enemy, 
which,  gaining  headway,  would  destroy  its 
scores  of  thousands ! 

At  the  end  of  the  first  two  months  Fielding 
Bey  became  hopeless. 

"  We  can't  throttle  it,"  he  said  to  Dicky 
Donovan.  "  They  don't  give  us  the  ghost  of 
a  chance.  To-day  I  found  a  dead-un  hid  in 
an  oven  under  a  heap  of  flour  to  be  used  for 
to-morrow's  baking ;  I  found  another  doubled 
up  in  a  cupboard,  and  another  under  a  pile  of 
dourha  which  will  be  ground  into  flour." 

"  AVith  twenty  ghaffirs  I  beat  five  cane 
and  dourha  fields  this  morning,"  said  Dicky. 
"  Found  three  cases.  They'd  been  taken  out 
of  the  village  during  the  night." 

"  Bad  ones  ?  " 

"  So  so.  They'll  be  worse  before  they're 
better.  That  was  my  morning's  flutter.  This 
afternoon  I  found  the  huts  these  gentlemen 
call  their  homes.  I  knocked  holes  in  the  roofs 
pc7^  usual,  burnt  everything  tliat  wasn't  wood, 

72 


ON    THE    REEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

let  in  the  light  o'  heaven,  and  splashed  about 
limewash  and  perchloride.  That's  my  day's 
tot-up.  Any  particular  trouble  ?  "  he  added, 
eyeing  Fielding  closely. 

Fielding  fretfully  jerked  his  foot  on  the 
floor,  and  lighted  his  pipe,  the  first  that  day. 

"  Heaps.  I've  put  the  barber  in  prison,  and 
given  the  sarraf  twenty  lashes  for  certifying 
that  the  death  of  the  son  of  the  mainour  was 
el  aadah — the  ordinary.  It  was  one  of  the 
worst  cases  I've  ever  seen.  He  fell  ill  at  ten 
and  was  dead  at  two,  the  permis  d inhumation 
was  given  at  four,  and  the  usual  thing  oc- 
curred :  the  body- washers  got  the  bedding  and 
clothing,  and  the  others  the  coverlet.  God 
only  knows  who'll  wear  that  clothing,  who'll 
sleep  in  that  bed  ! " 

"If  the  Lord  would  only  send  them  sense, 
we'd  supply  sublimate  solution — douche  and 
spray,  and  zinc  for  their  little  long  boxes  of 
bones,"  mused  Dicky,  his  eyes  half  shut,  as  he 
turned  over  in  his  hands  some  scarabs  a  place- 
hunting  official  had  brought  him  that  day. 
"  Well,  that  isn't  all  ?  "  lie  added,  with  a  quick 
upward  glance  and  a  quizzical  smile.  His 
eyes,  however,  as  they  fell  on  Fielding's,  soft- 
ened in  a  peculiar  way,  and  a  troubled  look 
flashed  through  them;  for  Fielding's  face  was 
drawn  and  cold,  though  the  eyes  were  feverish, 

73 


ON   THE    REEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

and  a  bright  spot  burned  on  his  high  cheek- 
bones. 

"  No,  it  isn't  all,  Dicky.  The  devil's  in  the 
whole  business.  Steady,  sullen  opposition 
meets  us  at  every  hand.  Norman's  been  here 
— rode  over  from  Abdallah — twenty -five  miles. 
A  report's  going  through  the  native  villages, 
started  at  Abdallah,  that  our  sanitary  agents 
are  throwing  yellow  liandkerchiefs  in  the  faces 
of  those  they're  going  to  isolate." 

"  That's  Hoskai  Bey's  yellow  handkerchief 
He's  a  good  man,  but  he  blows  his  nose  too 
much,  and  bloAVS  it  with  a  flourish.  ...  Has 
Norman  gone  back  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  made  him  lie  down  in  my  cabin. 
He  says  he  can't  sleep,  says  he  can  only  work. 
He  looks  ten  years  older.  ^Vbdallah's  an 
awful  place,  and  it's  a  heavy  district.  The 
mamour  there's  a  scoundrel.  He  has  influ- 
enced the  wliole  district  against  Norman  and 
our  men.  Norman — you  know  what  an  Alex- 
ander-Hannibal baby  it  is,  all  the  head  of  him 
good  for  the  best  sort  of  work  anywhere,  all 
the  fat  lieart  of  him  dripping  sentiment — gave 
a  youngster  a  comfit  tlie  otlicr  day.  By  some 
infernal  accident  the  child  fell  ill  two  days  af- 
terward— it  had  been  sucking  its  father's  old 
shoe — and  Norman  just  saved  its  life  by  the 
skin  of  his  teeth.     If  the  child  had  died,  there'd 

74. 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

have  been  a  riot  probably.  As  it  is,  there's 
talk  that  we're  scattering  poisoned  sweetmeats 
to  spread  the  disease.  He's  done  a  plucky 
thing,  though  .  .  .  .  "     He  paused. 

Dicky  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  Fielding 
continued.  "  There's  a  fellow  called  INIustapha 
Kali,  a  hanger-on  of  the  Mudir  of  the  province. 
He  spread  a  report  that  this  business  was  only 
a  scare  got  up  by  us ;  that  we  poisoned  the 
people  and  buried  them  alive.  AVhat  does 
Norman  do  ?  He  promptly  aiTCsts  him,  takes 
him  to  the  iVIudir,  and  says  that  the  brute  must 
be  punished  or  he'll  carry  the  matter  to  the 
Khedive." 

"  Here's  to  you,  Mr.  Norman  !  "  said  Dicky, 
with  a  little  laugh.  "  What  does  the  JMudir 
do?" 

"Doesn't  know  what  to  do.  He  tells  Nor- 
man to  say  to  me  that  if  he  puts  the  fellow  in 
prison  there'll  be  a  riot,  for  they'll  make  a  mar- 
tyr of  him.  If  he  fines  him  it  won't  improve 
matters.  So  he  asks  me  to  name  a  punish- 
ment which'll  suit  our  case.  He  promises 
to  give  it  '  his  most  distinguished  considera- 
tion.' " 

"And  what's  your  particular  poison  for  him?" 
asked  Dicky,  with  his  eyes  on  the  Cholera  Hos- 
pital a  few  hundred  yards  away. 

"  I  don't  know.  If  he's  punished  in  the  or- 
75 


ON   THE    REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

dinary  way  it  will  only  make  matters  worse, 
as  the  iVIudir  says.  Something's  needed  that 
will  play  our  game  and  turn  the  tables  on  the 
reptile  too." 

' '  A  sort  of  bite  himself  with  his  own  fangs, 
eh  ? "  Dicky  seemed  only  idly  watching  the 
moving  figures  by  the  Barge-Hospital. 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  it?  I  can't  inoculate  him 
with  bacilli  That's  what'd  do  the  work,  I 
fancy." 

"Pocket  your  fancy.  Fielding,"  answered 
Dicky.     "  Let  me  liave  a  throw." 

"  Go  on.  If  you  can't  hit  it  off,  it's  no 
good,  for  my  head  doesn't  think  these  days :  it 
only  sees,  and  hears,  and  burns." 

Dicky  eyed  Fielding  keenly,  and  then,  pour- 
ing out  some  whisky  for  himself,  put  the  bot- 
tle on  the  floor  beside  him,  casually  as  it  were. 
Then  he  said,  with  his  girlish  laugh,  not  quite 
so  girlish  these  days,  "  Yve  got  his  sentence 
pat — it'll  meet  the  case,  or  you  may  say,  '  Cas- 
sio,  never  more  be  oflicer  of  mine.' " 

He  drew  over  a  piece  of  paper  lying  on  the 
piano — for  there  was  a  piano  on  the  Ainoiliotep, 
and  with  what  seemed  an  audacious  levity 
Fielding  played  in  those  rare  moments  wlien 
they  were  not  working  or  sleeping ;  and  Field- 
ing could  really  play  !  As  Dicky  wrote  he 
read  aloud  in  a  kind  of  legal  monotone : 

76 


ON   THE    REEF    OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

"  The  citizen  3Iust(ipha  Kali  having  asserted 
that  there  is  no  cholera,  and  circulated  various 
false  statements  concerning  the  treatment  of 
patients,  is  hereby  appointed  as  hospital- assist  ant 
for  three  months,  in  the  Cholera  Hospitcd  of 
Kalamonn,  that  he  may  have  ojjport unity  of 
correcting  his  opinions. — Signed  Ebn  ben  Hari, 
Mudir  ofAbdallahr 

Fielding  lay  back  and  laughed — the  first 
laugh  on  his  lips  for  a  fortniglit.  He  laughed 
till  his  dry,  fevered  lips  took  on  a  natural 
moisture,  and  he  said  at  last :  "  You've  pulled 
it  off,  D.  That's  masterly.  You  and  Norman 
have  the  only  brains  in  this  show.  I  get 
worse  every  day  ;  I  do — upon  my  soul ! " 

There  was  a  curious  anxious  look  in  Dicky's 
eyes,  but  he  only  said,  "  You  hke  it  ?  Think 
it  fills  the  bill,  eh  ?  " 

"If  the  JNIudir  doesn't  pass  the  sentence  I'll 
shut  up  shop."  He  leaned  over  anxiously  to 
Dicky  and  gripped  his  arm.  "  I  tell  you  this 
pressure  of  opposition  has  got  to  be  removed, 
or  we'll  never  get  this  beast  of  an  epidemic 
under,  but  we'll  go  under  instead,  my  boy." 

"  Oh,  we're  doing  all  right,"  Dicky  answered, 
with  only  apparent  carelessness.  "  \Ve've  got 
inspection  of  the  trains,  we've  got  some  sort 
of  command  of  the  foresliores,  we've  got  the 
water  changed  in  the  mosques,  we've  closed 

77 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

the  fountains,  we've  stopped  the  markets, 
we've  put  Subhmate  Pasha  and  Limewash 
Effendi  on  the  war-path,  and " 

"And  the  natives  beheve  in  hghted  tar- 
barrels  and  a  cordon  samtalre!  No,  D.,  things 
must  take  a  turn,  or  the  game's  lost  and  we'll 
go  with  it.  Success  is  the  only  thing  that'll 
save  their  lives — and  ours  :  we  couldn't  stand 
failure  in  this.  A  man  can  walk  to  the  gates 
of  hell  to  do  the  hardest  trick,  and  he'll  come 
back  one  great  blister  and  Vwe^  if  he's  done  the 
thing  he  set  out  for ;  but  if  lie  doesn't  do  it, 
he  falls  into  the  furnace.  He  never  comes 
back.  Dicky,  things  must  be  pulled  our  way, 
or  we  go  to  deep  damnation." 

Dicky  turned  a  little  pale,  for  there  was  high 
nervous  excitement  in  Fielding's  words ;  and 
for  a  moment  he  found  it  liard  to  speak.  He 
was  about  to  say  something,  however,  when 
Fielding  continued. 

"  Norman  there," — he  pointed  to  the  deck- 
cabin, — "  Norman's  tlie  same.  He  says  it's  do 
or  die  ;  and  he  looks  it.  It  isn't  like  a  few 
fellows  besieged  by  a  host.  For  in  that  case 
you  wait  to  die,  and  you  fight  to  tlie  last,  and 
you  only  have  your  own  lives.  Jkit  tliis  is 
different.  We're  figliting  to  save  these  people 
from  themselves ;  and  this  slow,  quiet,  deadly 
work,  day  in  day  out,  in  tlie  sickening  sun  and 

78 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

smell — faugh !  the  awful  smell  in  the  air — it 
kills  in  the  end,  if  you  don't  pull  your  game 
off.     You  know  it's  true  ! " 

His  eyes  had  an  eager,  almost  prayerful 
look  ;  he  was  like  a  child  in  his  simple  earnest- 
ness. His  fingers  moved  over  the  maps  on 
the  table,  in  which  were  little  red  and  white 
and  yellow  flags,  the  white  flags  to  mark  the 
towns  and  villages  where  they  had  mastered 
the  disease,  the  red  flags  to  mark  the  new  ones 
attacked,  the  yellow  to  indicate  those  where 
the  disease  was  raging.  His  fingers  touched 
one  of  the  flags,  and  he  looked  down. 

"  See,  D.  Here  are  two  new  places  attacked 
to-day.  I  must  ride  over  to  Abdallah  when 
Norman  goes.     It's  all  so  hopeless  !  " 

"  Things  mil  take  a  turn,"  rejoined  Dicky, 
with  a  forced  gaiety.  "  You  needn't  ride  over 
to  Abdallah.  I'll  go  with  Norman,  and  w^hat's 
more  I'll  come  back  here  with  Mustapha  Kali." 

"  You'll  go  to  the  Mudir  ?  "  asked  Fielding 
eagerly.  He  seemed  to  set  so  much  store  by 
this  particular  business. 

"I'll  bring  the  Mudir  too,  if  there's  any 
trouble,"  said  Dicky  grimly ;  though  it  is  pos- 
sible he  did  not  mean  what  he  said. 

Two  hours  later  Fielding,  Dicky,  and  Nor- 
man were  in  conference,  extending  their  plans 

79 


ON   THE    REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

of  campaign.  Fielding  and  Norman  were 
eager  and  nervous,  and  their  hands  and  faces 
seemed  to  have  taken  on  the  arid  nature  of  the 
desert.  Before  they  sat  down  Dicky  had  put 
the  bottle  of  whisky  out  of  easy  reach  ;  for 
Fielding,  under  ordinary  circumstances  the 
most  abstemious  of  men,  liad  lately,  in  his 
great  fatigue  and  overstrain,  unconsciously 
emptied  his  glass  more  often  than  was  wise 
for  a  campaign  of  long  endurance.  Dicky 
noticed  now,  as  they  sat  round  the  table,  that 
Norman's  hand  went  to  the  coffee-pot  as 
Fielding's  had  gone  to  his  glass.  What  struck 
him  as  odd  also  Avas  that  Fielding  seemed  to 
have  caught  something  of  Norman's  manner. 
There  was  the  same  fevor  in  the  eyes,  though 
Norman's  face  was  more  worn  and  the  eyes 
more  sunken.  He  looked  like  a  man  that 
was  haunted.  There  was,  too,  a  certain  air 
of  helplessness  about  him,  a  primitive  in- 
tensity almost  painful.  Dicky  saw  Fielding 
respond  to  this  in  a  curious  way — it  was  the 
kind  of  fever  that  passes  quickly  from  brain  to 
brain  when  tliere  is  not  sound  bodily  health 
commanded  by  a  cool  intelligence  to  insulate 
it.  Fielding  had  done  tlie  work  of  four  men 
for  over  two  montlis,  and,  like  most  large  men, 
liis  nerves  had  given  in  before  Dicky's,  who 
had  done  six  men's  work  at  least,  and,  by  his 

80 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

power  of  organisation  and  his  labour-saving  in- 
telligence,  conserved  the  work  of  another  fifty. 

The  three  were  sitting  silent,  having  arranged 
certain  measures,  when  Norman  sprang  to  his 
feet  excitedly  and  struck  the  table  with  his 
hand. 

" It's  no  use,  sir,"  he  said  to  Fielding,  "I'll 
have  to  go.  I'm  no  good.  I  neglect  my  duty. 
I  was  to  be  back  at  Abdallah  at  five.  I  for- 
got all  about  it.  A  most  important  thing.  A 
load  of  fessikh  was  landed  at  Minkari,  five 
miles  beyond  Abdallah.  We've  prohibited 
fessikh.  I  was  going  to  seize  it.  .  .  .  It's  no 
good.     It's  all  so  hopeless  here." 

Dicky  knew  now  that  the  beginning  of  the 
end  had  come  for  Norman.  There  were  only 
two  things  to  do:  get  him  away  shooting 
somewhere,  or  humour  him  here.  But  there 
was  no  chance  for  shooting  till  things  got  very 
much  better.  The  authorities  in  Cairo  would 
never  understand,  and  the  babbling  social- 
military  folk  would  say  that  they  had  calmly 
gone  shooting  while  pretending  to  stay  the 
cholera  epidemic.  It  wouldn't  be  possible  to 
explain  that  Norman  was  in  a  bad  way,  and  that 
it  was  done  to  give  him  half  a  chance  of  life. 

Fielding  also  ought  to  have  a  few  days  clear 
away  from  this  constant  pressure  and  fighting, 
and  the  sounds  and  the  smells  of  death ;  but 

81 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

it  could  not  be  yet.  Therefore,  to  humour 
them  both  was  the  only  thing,  and  Norman's 
was  the  worse  case.  After  all,  they  had  got  a 
system  of  sanitary  supervision,  they  had  the 
disease  by  the  throat,  and  even  in  Cairo  the  ad- 
ministration was  waking  up  a  little.  The  crisis 
would  soon  pass  perhaps,  if  a  riot  could  be 
stayed  and  the  natives  give  up  their  awful  fic- 
tions of  yellow  handkerchiefs,  poisoned  sweet- 
meats, deadly  limewash,  and  all  such  nonsense. 

So  Dicky  said  now:  "All  right,  Norman; 
come  along.  You'll  seize  that  fessikh,  and  I'll 
bring  back  Mustapha  Kali.  We'll  work  him 
as  he  has  never  worked  in  his  life.  He'll  be  a 
living  object-lesson.  We'll  have  all  Upper 
Egypt  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  waiting  to  see 
what  happens  to  Mustapha." 

Dicky  laughed,  and  Fielding  responded 
feebly  ;  but  Norman  was  looking  at  the  Barge- 
Hospital  with  a  look  too  bright  for  joy,  too 
intense  for  despair. 

"  I  found  ten  in  a  corner  of  a  cane-field  yes- 
terday," he  said  dreamily.  "  Four  were  dead, 
and  the  others  had  taken  the  dead  men's 
smocks  as  covering."  He  shuddered.  "  I  see 
nothing  but  limewash,  smell  nothing  but  car- 
bolic. It's  got  into  my  head.  I  .ook  here,  old 
man,  I  can't  stand  it.  I'm  no  use,"  he  added 
pathetically  to  Fieldnig. 

82 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

"You're  right  enough,  it'  you'll  not  take 
yourself  so  seriously,"  said  Dicky  jauntily. 
"  You  mustn't  try  to  say,  '  Alone  I  did  it.' 
Come  along.  Fill  your  tobacco-pouch.  There 
are  the  horses.     I'm  ready." 

He  turned  to  Fielding. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  stiff  ride.  Fielding.  But 
I'll  do  it  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  bring  Mus- 
tapha  Kali  too — for  a  consideration." 

He  paused,  and  Fielding  said,  with  an  at- 
tempt at  playfulness,  "  Name  your  price." 

"  That  you  play  for  me,  when  I  get  back, 
the  overture  of  Tannhduser.  Play  it,  mind  ; 
no  tuning  up  sort  of  thing,  like  last  Sunday's 
performance.  Practise  it,  my  son  !  Is  it  a 
bargain  ?  I'm  not  going  to  work  for  nothing 
a  day." 

He  watched  the  effect  of  his  words  anxiously, 
for  he  saw  how  needful  it  was  to  divert  Field- 
ing's mind  in  the  midst  of  all  this  "plague, 
pestilence,  and  famine."  For  days  Fielding 
had  not  touched  the  piano,  the  piano  which 
Mrs.  Henshaw,  widow  of  Henshaw  of  the 
Buffs,  had  insisted  on  his  taking  with  him  a 
year  before,  saying  that  it  would  be  a  cure  for 
lonehness  when  away  from  her.  During  the 
first  of  these  black  days  Fielding  had  played 
intermittently  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time, 
and  Dicky  had  noticed  that  after  playing  he 

83 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S    WOE 

seemed  in  better  spirits.  But  lately  the  dis- 
ease of  a  ceaseless  unrest,  of  constant  sleepless 
work,  was  on  him.  He  had  not  played  for 
near  a  week,  saying,  in  response  to  Dicky's 
urging,  that  there  was  no  time  for  music.  And 
Dicky  knew  that  presently  there  would  be  no 
time  to  eat,  and  then  no  time  to  sleep;  and 
then,  the  worst !  Dicky  had  pinned  his  faith 
and  his  friendship  to  Fielding,  and  he  saw  no 
reason  why  he  should  lose  his  friend  because 
Madame  Cholera  was  stalking  the  native  vil- 
lages, driving  the  Fellaheen  before  her  like 
sheep  to  the  slaughter. 

"  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  "  he  added,  as  Fielding  did 
not  at  once  reply.  If  Fielding  would  but  play 
it  would  take  tlie  strain  off  his  mind  at  times. 

"All  right,  D.,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with 
it,"  said  Fielding,  and  with  a  nod  turned  to  the 
map  with  the  little  red  and  white  and  yellow 
flags,  and  began  to  study  it. 

He  did  not  notice  that  one  of  his  crew  abaft 
near  the  wheel  was  watching  him  closely,  while 
creeping  along  the  railing  on  tlie  pretence  of 
cleaning  it.  Fielding  was  absorbed  in  making 
notes  upon  a  piece  of  paper  and  moving  the 
little  flags  about.  Now  he  lit  a  cigar  and  be- 
gan walking  up  and  down  the  deck. 

The  Arab  disappeared,  but  a  few  minutes 
afterward   returned.      The  deck  was   empty. 

84 


ON    THE    REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

Fielding  had  ridden  away  to  the  village.  The 
map  was  still  on  the  table.  With  a  frightened 
face  the  Arab  peered  at  it,  then  going  to  the 
side  he  called  down  softly,  and  there  came  up 
from  the  lower  deck  a  Copt,  the  sarraf  of  the 
village,  who  could  read  English  fairly.  The 
Arab  pointed  to  the  map,  and  the  Copt  ap- 
proached cautiously.  A  few  feet  away  he 
tried  to  read  what  was  on  the  map,  but,  unable 
to  do  so,  drew  closer,  pale-faced  and  knock- 
kneed,  and  stared  at  the  map  and  the  little 
flags.  An  instant  afterward  he  drew  back, 
and  turned  to  the  Arab. 

"  May  God  burn  his  eyes !  He  sends  the 
death  to  the  village  by  moving  the  flags.  INIay 
God  change  him  into  a  dog  to  be  beaten  to 
death  !  The  red  is  to  begin,  the  white  flag  is 
for  more  death,  the  yellow  is  for  enough.  See 
— may  God  cut  off  his  hand  ! — he  has  moved 
the  white  flag  to  our  village."  He  pointed 
in  a  trembling  fear,  half  real,  half  assumed — 
for  he  was  of  a  nation  of  liars. 

During  the  next  half-hour  at  least  a  dozen 
Arabs  came  to  look  at  the  map,  but  they  dis- 
appeared like  rats  in  a  hole  when,  near  mid- 
night, Fielding's  tall  form  appeared  on  the 
bank  above. 

It  was  counted  to  him  as  a  devil's  incanta- 
tion, the  music  that  he  played  that  night,  re- 
7  85 


ON   THE    REEF   OF   NOILAIAN'S   WOE 

membering  his  promise  to  Dicky  Donovan. 
It  was  music  through  which  breathed  the  des- 
perate, troubled,  aching  heart  and  tortured 
mind  of  an  overworked  strong  man.  It  cried 
to  the  night  its  trouble  ;  but  far  over  in  the 
Cholera  Hospital  the  sick  heard  it  and  turned 
their  faces  towards  it  eagerly.  It  pierced  the 
apathy  of  the  dying.  It  did  more,  for  it  gave 
Fielding  five  hours'  sleep  that  night;  and 
though  he  waked  to  see  one  of  his  own  crew 
dead  on  the  bank,  he  tackled  the  day's  labour 
with  more  hope  than  he  had  had  for  a  fort- 
night. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  however,  his  spirits  fell, 
for  on  e\  ery  hand  was  suspicion,  unrest,  and 
opposition,  and  his  native  assistants  went  slug- 
gishly about  tlieir  work.  It  was  pathetic  and 
disheartening  to  see  people  refusing  to  be  pro- 
tected, the  sick  refusing  to  be  relieved,  all 
stricken  with  fear,  yet  inviting  death  by  dis- 
obeying the  Inglesi. 

Kalamoun  was  hopeless;  yet  twenty-four 
hours  earlier  Fielding  had  fancied  there  was  a 
little  light  in  the  darkness.  That  night  Field- 
ing's music  gave  him  but  two  hours'  sleep,  and 
he  had  to  begin  the  day  on  a  brandy-and-soda. 
Wherever  he  went  open  resistance  blocked  his 
way,  hisses  and  nnittc»'ings  followed  him,  the 
sick  were  hid  in  all  sorts  of  places,  and  two  of 

86 


ON   THE    REEF   OF  NORMAN^S   \VOE 

his  assistants  deserted  before  noon.  Tilings 
looked  ominous  enough,  and  at  five  o'clock  he 
made  up  Iiis  mind  that  Egypt  woidd  be  over- 
run with  cholera,  and  that  he  should  probably 
have  to  defend  himself  and  the  Amciihotcp 
from  rioters,  for  the  nati\'e  police  would  be 
useless. 

But  at  five  o'clock  Dicky  Donovan  came  in 
a  boat,  and  with  him  IMustapha  Kali  under 
a  native  guard  of  four  men.  The  INIudir's 
sense  of  humour  had  been  touched,  and  this 
sense  of  humour  probably  saved  the  INIudir 
from  trouble,  for  it  played  Dicky's  game  for 
him. 

Mustapha  Kali  had  been  sentenced  to  serve 
in  the  Cholera  Hospital  of  Kalamoun,  that  he 
might  be  cured  of  his  unbelief  At  first  he 
had  taken  his  fate  hardly,  but  Dicky  had 
taunted  him  and  then  had  suggested  that  a 
man  whose  conscience  was  clear  and  convic- 
tions good  would  carry  a  high  head  in  trouble. 
Dicky  challenged  him  to  prove  his  libels  by 
probing  the  business  to  the  bottom,  like  a  true 
scientist.  All  the  way  from  Abdallah  Dicky 
talked  to  him  so,  and  at  last  the  only  answer 
JMustapha  Kali  would  make  was  '' Malaish''' — 
no  matter ! 

IMustapha  Kali  pricked  up  his  ears  with  hope 
as  he  saw  the  sullen  crowds  from  Kalamoun 

87 


ON  THE    REEF   OF   NORMANS   WOE 

gathering  on  the  shore  to  watch  his  deporta- 
tation  to  the  Cholera  Hospital ;  and,  as  he 
stepped  from  the  kliiassa,  he  called  out  loudly : 

"  They  are  all  dogs  and  sons  of  dogs,  and 
dogs  were  their  grandsires.  No  good  is  in  a 
dog  the  offspring  of  a  dog.  AVhenever  these 
dogs  scratch  the  ground  the  dust  of  poison  is 
in  the  air,  and  we  die." 

"  You  are  impolite,  INIustapha  Kali,"  said 
Dicky  coolly,  and  offered  him  a  cigarette. 

The  next  three  days  were  the  darkest  in 
Dicky  Donovan's  career.  On  the  first  day 
there  came  word  that  Norman,  overwrought, 
had  shot  himself.  On  the  next,  Mustapha 
Kali  in  a  fit  of  anger  threw  a  native  policeman 
into  tlie  river,  and  when  his  head  appeared 
struck  it  with  a  barge-pole,  and  the  man  sank 
to  rise  no  more.  The  three  remaining  police- 
men, two  of  whom  were  Soudanese  and  true  to 
Dicky,  bound  him  and  shut  him  up  in  a  hut. 
When  Fielding  refused  to  play  that  evening 
Dicky  knew  tliat  Norman's  fate  had  taken 
liold  of  him,  and  tliat  he  must  watcli  his  friend 
ev^ery  minute — that  awful  vigilance  wliich  kills 
the  watcher  in  tlie  end.  Dicky  said  to  him- 
self more  than  once  that  day  : 

"Christ  save  lis  ail  frotii  a  dc.itli  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  woe  !  " 

88 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

But  it  was  not  Dicky  who  saved  Fielding. 
On  the  third  day  the  long-deferred  riot  broke 
out.  The  Copt  and  the  Arab  had  spread  the 
report  that  Fielding  brought  death  to  the  vil- 
lages by  moving  the  little  flags  on  his  map. 
The  populace  rose. 

Fielding  was  busy  with  the  map  at  the 
dreaded  moment  that  hundreds  of  the  vil- 
lagers appeared  upon  the  bank  and  rushed  the 
Amenhotep.  Fielding  and  Dicky  were  both 
armed,  but  Fielding  would  not  fire  until  he 
saw  that  his  own  crew  had  joined  the  rioters 
on  the  bank.  Tlien,  amid  a  shower  of  mis- 
siles, he  shot  the  Arab  who  had  first  spread 
the  report  about  the  map  and  the  flags. 

Now  Dicky  and  he  were  joined  by  Hol- 
gate,  the  Yorkshire  engineer  of  the  Amenho- 
tep, and  together  the  three  tried  to  hold  the 
boat.  Every  native  had  left  them.  They 
were  obliged  to  retreat  aft  to  the  deck-cabin. 
l*lacing  their  backs  against  it,  they  prepared 
to  die  hard.  No  one  could  reach  them  from 
behind,  at  least. 

It  was  an  unequal  fight.  All  three  liad  re- 
ceived slight  wounds,  but  the  blood-letting  did 
them  all  good.  Fielding  was  once  more  him- 
self :  nervous  anxiety,  unrest,  had  gone  from 
him.  He  was  as  cool  as  a  cucumber.  He 
would  not  go  shipwreck  now  "On  the  reef  of 

89 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN^S   WOE 

Norman's  woe."  Here  was  a  better  sort  of 
death.  No  men  ever  faced  it  witli  quieter 
minds  than  did  the  three.  Every  instant 
brought  it  nearer. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  cry  and  a  stampede 
in  the  rear  of  the  attacking  natives.  The 
crowd  suddenly  parted  like  two  waves,  and 
retreated ;  and  Mustapha  Kali,  almost  naked, 
and  supported  by  a  stolid  Soudanese,  stood 
before  the  three.  He  was  pallid,  his  hands 
and  brow  were  dripping  sweat,  and  there  was 
a  look  of  death  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  cholera,  effendi !  "  he  said.  "  Take 
me  to  Abdallah  to  die,  that  I  may  be  buried 
with  my  people  and  from  mine  own  house." 

"  Is  it  not  poison  ? "  said  Fielding  grimly, 
yet  seeing  now  a  ray  of  hope  in  the  sickening 
business. 

"  It  is  cholera,  effendi.  Take  me  home  to 
die." 

"  Very  well.  Tell  tlie  people  so,  and  T  will 
take  you  liome,  and  1  will  bury  you  with  your 
fatliers,"  said  Fielding. 

JNlustapha  Kali  turned  slowly.  "I  am  sick 
of  cholera,"  he  said  as  loudly  as  he  could  to 
the  awe-stricken  crowd.  "  May  C>od  not  cool 
my  resting-place  if  it  be  not  so  ! " 

"  Tell  the  people  to  go  to  their  homes  and 
obey  us,"  said  Dicky,  putting  away  his  pistol. 

90 


ON   THE   REEF   OF   NORMAN'S   WOE 

"  These  be  good  men,  I  have  seen  with  mine 
own  eyes,"  said  Mustapha  hoarsely  to  the 
crowd.  "It  is  for  your  good  they  do  all. 
Have  I  not  seen?  Let  God  fill  both  my 
hands  with  dust  if  it  be  not  so  !  God  hath 
stricken  me,  and  behold  I  give  myself  into  the 
hands  of  the  Inglesi,  for  I  believe  ?  " 

He  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  but 
Dicky  and  the  Soudanese  caught  him  and 
carried  him  down  to  the  bank,  while  the  crowd 
scuttled  from  the  boat,  and  Fielding  made 
ready  to  bear  the  dying  man  to  Abdallah — a 
race  against  death. 

Fielding  brought  INIustapha  Kali  to  Ab- 
dallah in  time  to  die  there,  and  buried  him 
with  his  fathers ;  and  Dicky  stayed  behind  to 
cleanse  Kalamoun  with  perchloride  and  lime- 
wash. 

The  story  went  abroad  and  travelled  fast, 
and  the  words  of  INIustapha  Kali,  oft  repeated, 
became  as  the  speech  of  a  holy  man ;  and  the 
people  no  longer  hid  their  dead,  but  brought 
them  to  the  Amenhotcp. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  better  things ; 
the  disease  was  stayed. 

And  for  all  the  things  that  these  men  did — 
Fielding  Bey  and  Donovan  Fasha — they  got 
naught  but  an  Egyptian  ribbon  to  wear  on 

91 


Ox\   THE   HEEF   OF   NORMAN^S    WOE 

the  breast  and  a  laboured  censure  from  the 
Administration  for  overrunning  the  budget 
allowance. 

Dicky,  however,  seemed  satisfied,  for  Field- 
ing's little  barque  of  life  had  not  gone  down 
"  On  the  reef  of  Norman's  woe."  JNlrs.  Hen- 
shaw  felt  so  also  when  she  was  told  all,  and 
she  disconcerted  Dicky  by  bursting  into  tears. 

"  AV^hy  those  tears  ?  "  said  Dicky  to  Field- 
ing afterward ;  "  I  wasn't  eloquent." 


92 


FIELDING  HAD  AN  ORDERLY 


IS  legs  were  like  pipe-stems,  his 
body  was  like  a  board,  but  he 
was  straight  enough,  not  un- 
soldierly,  nor  so  bad  to  look  at 
when  his  back  was  on  you ; 
but  when  he  showed  his  face 
you  had  little  pleasure  in  him. 
It  seemed  made  of  brown 
putty,  the  nose  was  like  india- 
rubber,  and  the  eyes  had  that 
dull  sullen  look  of  a  mongrel  got  of  a  fox- 
terrier  and  a  bull-dog.  Like  this  sort  of  mon- 
grel also  his  eyes  turned  a  brownish-red  when 
he  was  excited. 

You  could  always  tell  when  something  had 
gone  wrong  with  Ibrahim  the  Orderly,  by 
that  curious  dull  glare  in  his  eyes.  Selamlik 
Pasha  said  to  Fielding  that  it  was  hashish; 
Fielding  said  it  was  a  cross  breed  of  Soudan- 
ese and  Fellah.  But  little  Dicky  Donovan 
said  it  was  something  else,  and  he  kept  his 

93 


FIELDING    HAD   AX    ORDERLY 

eye  upon  Ibrahim.  And  Dicky,  with  all  his' 
faults,  could  screw  his  way  fi*om  the  front  of 
a  thing  to  the  back  thereof  like  no  other  civ- 
ilised man  you  ever  knew.  But  he  did  not 
press  his  opinions  upon  Fielding,  who  was  an 
able  administrator  and  a  very  clever  fellow 
also,  wdth  a  genial  habit  of  believing  in  people 
who  served  him  :  and  that  is  bad  in  the  Orient. 

As  an  orderly  Ibrahim  was  like  a  clock; 
stiff  in  his  gait  as  a  pendulum,  regular  as  a 
minute.  He  had  no  tongue  for  gossip  either, 
so  far  as  Fielding  knew.  Also,  five  times  a 
day  he  said  his  prayers — an  unusual  thing  for 
a  Gippy  soldier-servant;  for  as  the  Gippy's 
rank  increases  he  soils  his  knees  and  puts  his 
forehead  in  the  dust  with  discretion.  This 
was  another  reason  why  Dicky  suspected  him. 

It  was  supposed  that  Ibrahim  could  not 
speak  a  word  of  Enghsh;  and  he  seemed  so 
stupid,  he  looked  so  blank,  when  English  was 
spoken,  that  Fielding  had  no  doubt  the  Eng- 
lish language  was  a  Tablet  of  ^Vbydos  to  him. 
But  Dicky  was  more  wary,  and  waited.  He 
could  be  very  patient  and  simple,  and  his  del- 
icate face  seemed  as  innocent  as  a  girl's  when 
he  said  to  Ibrahim  one  morning:  "Ibrahim, 
brother  of  scorpions,  Fm  going  to  teach  you 
Enghsh!"  and,  squatting  like  a  Turk  on  the 
deck  of  the  Anictiliotcp,  the  stern- wheeled  tub 

94 


FIELDING   HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

which  Fielding  called  a  steamer,  he  began  to 
teach  Ibrahim. 

"  Say '  Good  morning,  kind  sir ! ' "  he  drawled. 

No  tongue  was  ever  so  thick,  no  throat  so 
guttural,  as  Ibrahim's  when  he  obeyed  this 
command.  That  was  why  suspicion  grew  the 
more  in  the  mind  of  Dicky.  But  he  made 
the  Gippy  say  "  Good  morning,  kind  sir ! " 
over  and  over  again.  Now,  it  was  a  peculiar 
thing  that  Ibrahim's  pronunciation  grew  worse 
every  time ;  which  goes  to  show  that  a  com- 
bination of  Soudanese  and  Fellah  doesn't  make 
a  really  clever  villain.  Twice,  three  times, 
Dicky  gave  him  other  words  and  phrases  to 
say,  and  practice  made  Ibrahim  more  perfect 
in  error. 

Dicky  suddenly  enlarged  the  vocabulary 
thus  :  "  An  old  man  had  three  sons  :  one  was 
a  thief,  another  a  rogue,  and  the  worst  of  them 
all  was  a  soldier.    But  the  soldier  died  first !  " 

As  he  said  these  words  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Ibrahim  in  a  smiling,  juvenile  sort  of 
way;  and  he  saw  the  colour — the  brownish- 
red  colour — creep  slowly  into  Ibrahim's  eyes. 
For  Ibrahim's  father  had  three  sons  :  and  cer- 
tainly one  was  a  thief,  for  he  liad  been  a  tax- 
gatherer  ;  and  one  was  a  rogue,  for  he  had 
been  the  servant  of  a  Greek  money-lender; 
and  Ibrahim  was  a  soldier ! 

95 


FIELDING    HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

Ibrahim  was  made  to  say  these  words  over 
and  ov^er  again,  and  the  red  fire  in  his  eyes 
deepened  as  Dieky's  face  lighted  up  with  what 
seemed  a  mere  mocking  pleasure,  a  sort  of 
impish  dehght  in  teasing,  hke  that  of  a  mad- 
cap girl  with  a  yokel.  Each  time  Ibrahim 
said  the  words  he  jumbled  them  worse  than 
before.  Then  Dicky  asked  him  if  he  knew 
what  an  old  man  was,  and  Ibrahim  said  no. 
Dicky  said  softly  in  Arabic  that  the  old  man 
was  a  fool  to  have  three  such  sons — a  thief, 
and  a  rogue,  and  a  soldier.  With  a  tender 
patience  he  explained  what  a  thief  and  a  rogue 
were,  and  his  voice  was  curiously  soft  when  he 
added,  in  Arabic,  "  And  the  third  son  was  like 
you,  Mahommed — and  he  died  first." 

Ibrahim's  eyes  gloomed  under  the  raillery — 
under  what  he  thought  the  cackle  of  a  de- 
tested Inglesi  with  a  face  like  a  girl,  of  an  in- 
fidel who  had  a  tongue  that  handed  you  honey 
on  the  point  of  a  two-edged  sword.  In  his 
heart  he  hated  this  slim  small  exquisite  as  he 
had  never  hated  Fielding.  His  eyes  became 
like  little  pots  of  simmering  blood,  and  he 
showed  his  teeth  in  a  hateful  way,  because  he 
was  sure  he  should  glut  his  hatred  before  the 
moon  came  full. 

Little  Dicky  Donovan  knew,  as  he  sleepily 
told  Ibrahim  to  go,  that  for  months  the  Or- 

96 


FIELDING    HAD    AN    ORDERLY 

derly  had  listened  to  the  wholesome  but  scath- 
ing talk  of  Fielding  and  himself  on  the  Egyp- 
tian Government,  and  had  reported  it  to  those 
whose  tool  and  spy  he  was. 

That  night,  the  stern- wheeled  tub,  the 
Amenhotep,  lurched  like  a  turtle  on  its  back 
into  the  sands  by  Beni  Hassan.  Of  all  the 
villages  of  LTpper  Egypt,  from  the  time  of 
Rameses,  none  has  been  so  bad  as  Beni  Has- 
san. Every  ruler  of  Egypt,  at  one  time  or 
another,  has  raided  it  and  razed  it  to  the 
ground.  It  was  not  for  pleasure  that  Fielding 
sojourned  there. 

This  day,  and  for  three  days  past,  Field- 
ing had  been  abed  in  his  cabin  with  a  touch 
of  Nilotic  fever.  His  heart  was  sick  for 
Cairo,  for  he  had  been  three  months  on  the 
river  ;  and  Mrs.  Henshaw  was  in  Cairo — Mrs. 
Henshaw,  the  widow  of  Henshaw  of  the 
Buffs,  who  lived  with  her  brother,  a  stone's- 
throw  from  the  Esbekieh  Gardens.  Fielding 
longed  for  Cairo,  but  Beni  Hassan  interv^ened. 
The  little  man  who  worried  Ibrahim  urged 
him  the  way  his  private  inclinations  ran,  but 
he  was  obdurate :  duty  must  be  done. 

Dicky  Donovan  had  reasons  other  than  pri- 
vate ones  for  making  haste  to  Cairo.  During 
the  last  three  days  they  had  stopped  at  five 
villages  on  the  Nile,  and  in  each  place  Dicky, 

97 


FIELDING    HAD    AN    ORDEKLY 

who  had  done  Fielding's  work  of  inspection 
for  him,  had  been  met  with  unusual  insolence 
from  the  Arabs  and  Fellaheen,  officials  and 
others ;  and  the  prompt  chastisement  he  ren- 
dered with  his  riding- whip  in  return  did  not 
tend  to  ease  his  mind,  though  it  soothed  his 
feelings.  There  had  been  flying  up  the  river 
strange  ruinours  of  trouble  down  in  Cairo, 
black  threats  of  rebellion — of  a  seditious  army 
in  the  palm  o+'  one  man's  hand.  At  the  cafes 
on  the  Nile,  Dicky  himself  had  seen  strange 
gatherings,  which  dispersed  as  he  came  on 
them.  For,  somehow,  his  smile  had  the  same 
effect  as  other  men's  frowns. 

This  evening  lie  added  a  whistle  to  his  smile 
as  he  made  his  inspection  of  the  engine-room 
and  the  galley  and  every  corner  of  the  Amen- 
hotep,  according  to  his  custom.  AVliat  he 
whistled  no  man  knew,  not  even  himself.  It 
was  ready-made.  It  might  have  been  a  med- 
ley, but,  as  things  liappened,  it  was  an  over- 
ture ;  and  by  the  eyes,  the  red-litten  windows 
of  the  mind  of  Mahommed  Ibrahim,  who 
squatted  beside  the  Yorkshire  engineer  at  the 
wheel,  playing  Mankalali,  he  knew  it  was  an 
overture. 

As  he  went  to  his  cabin  he  murmured  to 
himself,  "  There's  the  devil  to  pay :  now  I 
wonder  who  pays  ?  " 

98 


FIELDING   HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

Because  he  was  planning  things  of  moment, 
he  took  a  native  drum  down  to  Fielding's 
cabin,  and  made  Fielding  play  it,  native  fash- 
ion, as  he  thrummed  his  own  banjo  and  sang 
the  airy  ballad  "  The  Dragoons  of  Enniskil- 
len."  Yet  Dicky  was  thinking  hard  all  the 
time. 

Now  there  was  in  Beni  Hassan  a  Ghazeeyeh, 
a  dancing-woman  of  the  Ghawazee  tribe,  of 
whom,  in  the  phrase  of  the  moralists,  the  less 
said  the  better.  What  her  name  was  does  not 
matter.  She  was  well-to-do.  She  had  a  hus- 
band who  played  the  kemengeh  for  her  danc- 
ing. She  had  as  good  a  house  as  the  Omdah, 
and  she  had  two  female  slaves. 

Dicky  Donovan  was  of  that  rare  type  of 
man  who  has  the  keenest  desire  to  know  all 
things,  good  or  evil,  though  he  was  fastidious 
when  it  came  to  doing  them.  He  had  a  gift 
of  keeping  his  own  commandments.  If  he 
had  been  a  six-footer  and  riding  eighteen 
stone — if  he  hadn't  been,  as  Fielding  often 
said,  so  "  damned  finnicky,"  he  might  easily 
have  come  a  cropper.  For,  being  absolutely 
without  fear,  he  did  what  he  listed  and  went 
where  he  listed.  An  insatiable  curiosity  was 
his  strongest  point,  save  one.  If  he  had  had 
a  headache — though  he  never  had — he  would 
at  once  have  made  an  inquiry  into  the  various 

99 


FIELDING    HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

kinds  of  headache  possible  to  mortal  man,  with 
pungent  deductions  from  his  demonstrations. 
So  it  was  tliat  when  he  first  saw  a  dancing-girl 
in  the  streets  of  Cairo  he  could  not  rest  imtil 
by  circuitous  routes  he  had  traced  the  history 
of  dancing-girls  back  through  the  ages,  through 
Greece  and  the  ruby  East,  even  to  the  days 
when  the  beautiful  bad  ones  were  invited  to 
the  feasts  of  the  mighty,  to  charm  the  eyes  of 
King  Seti  or  Queen  Hatsu. 

He  was  an  authority  on  the  tribe  of  the 
Ghawazee,  proving,  to  their  satisfaction  and 
his  own,  their  descent  from  the  household  of 
Haroon  al  Rashid.  He  was,  therefore,  wel- 
come among  them.  But  he  had  found  also, 
as  many  another  wise  man  has  found  in  "  fur- 
rin  parts,"  that  your  greatest  safety  lies  in 
bringing  tobacco  to  the  men  and  leaving  the 
women  alone.  For,  in  those  distant  lands,  a 
man  may  sell  you  his  nuptial  bed,  but  he  will 
pin  the  price  of  it  to  your  back  one  day  with 
the  point  of  a  lance  or  the  wedge  of  a  hatchet. 

Herebefore  will  be  foimd  the  reason  why 
Dicky  Donovan — twenty-five  "and  no  mous- 
tache, pink-cheeked  and  rosy-hearted,  and  no 
white  spots  on  his  liver  "^ — went  straight,  that 
particular  night,  to  tlie  liouse  of  the  chief 
dancing-girl  of  Heni  Hassan  for  help  in  his 
trouble.     From  her  he  had  learned  to  dance 

100 


FIELDING   HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

the  dance  of  the  Ghawazee.  He  had  learned 
it  so  that,  with  his  insatiable  curiosity,  his 
archaeological  instinct,  he  should  be  able  to 
compare  it  with  the  Nautch  dance  of  India, 
the  Hula- Hula  of  the  Sandwich  Islanders,  the 
Siva  of  the  Samoans. 

A  half- hour  from  the  time  he  set  his  foot  in 
Beni  Hassan  two  dancing-girls  issued  from  the 
house  of  the  Ghazeeyeh,  dressed  in  shintiyan 
and  muslin  tarah,  anklets  and  bracelets,  with 
gold  coins  about  the  forehead — and  one  was 
Dicky  Donovan.  He  had  done  the  rare 
'thing:  he  had  trusted  absolutely  that  class  of 
woman  who  is  called  a  "  rag  '  in  that  far  coun- 
try, and  a  "  drab "  in  ours.  But  he  was  a 
judge  of  human  nature,  and  judges  of  human 
nature  know  you  are  pretty  safe  to  trust  a 
woman  who  never  trusts,  no  matter  how  bad 
she  is,  if  she  has  no  influence  over  you.  He 
used  to  say  that  the  better  you  are  and  the 
worse  she  is,  the  more  you  can  trust  her. 
Other  men  may  talk,  but  Dicky  Donovan 
knows. 

What  Dicky's  aunt,  the  Dowager  Lady 
Carmichael,  would  have  said  to  liave  seen 
Dicky  flaunting  it  in  the  clothes  of  a  dancing- 
girl  through  the  streets  of  vile  Beni  Hassan, 
must  not  be  considered.  None  would  have 
believed  that  his  pink-and-white  face  and  slim 
8  101 


FIELDING    HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

hands  and  staringly  white  ankles  could  have 
been  made  to  look  so  boldly  handsome,  so  im- 
peachable. But  henna  in  itself  seems  to  have 
certain  qualities  of  viciousness  in  its  brownish- 
red  stain,  and  Dicky  looked  sufficiently  aban- 
doned. The  risk  was  great,  however,  for  his 
Arabic  was  too  good  and  he  had  to  depend 
upon  the  Ghazeeyah's  adroitness,  on  the  pecu- 
liar advantage  of  being  under  the  protection 
of  the  mistress  of  the  house  as  large  as  the 
Omdah's. 

From  one  cafe  to  another  they  went.  Here 
a  snake-charmer  gathered  a  meagre  crowd 
about  him ;  there  an  ' A'l'meh,  or  singing-girl, 
lilted  a  ribald  song  ;  elsewhere  hashish-smokers 
stretched  out  gaunt,  loathsome  fingers  towards 
them ;  and  a  Sha'er  recited  the  romance  of 
Aboo  Zeyd.  But  Dicky  noticed  that  none  of 
the  sheikhs,  none  of  the  gi-eat  men  of  the  vil- 
lage, were  at  these  cafes  ;  only  the  very  young, 
the  useless,  the  licentious,  or  tlie  decrepit.  But 
by  flickering  fires  under  the  palm-trees  were 
groups  of  men  talking  and  gesticulating;  and 
now  and  then  an  Arab  galloped  through  the 
street,  tlie  point  of  his  long  lance  shining. 
Dicky  felt  a  secret,  like  a  troubled  wind,  stir- 
ring through  the  place,  a  movement  not  ex- 
plainable by  his  own  inner  tremulousness. 

At  last  they  went  to  the  largest  cafe  beside 
102 


FIELDING   HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

the  Mosque  of  Hoseyn.  He  saw  the  Sheikh- 
el-beled  sitting  on  his  bench,  and,  grouped 
round  him,  smoking,  several  sheikhs  and  the 
young  men  of  the  village.  Here  he  and  the 
Ghazeeyeh  danced.  Few  noticed  them;  for 
which  Dicky  was  thankful ;  and  he  risked  dis- 
covery by  coming  nearer  the  circle.  He  could, 
however,  catch  little  that  they  said,  for  they 
spoke  in  low  tones,  the  Sheikh-el-beled  talking 
seldom,  but  listening  closely. 

The  crowd  around  the  cafe  grew.  Occa- 
sionally an  Arab  would  throw  back  his  head 
and  cry,  ''AUdhu  Akbar!"  Another  drew  a 
sword  and  waved  it  in  the  air.  Some  one  in 
front  of  him  whispered  one  startling  word  to  a 
camel- driver. 

Dicky  had  got  his  cue.  To  him  that  whis- 
per was  as  loud  and  clear  as  the  "  Lei  ihiha 
ilia- lid /{ f'  called  from  the  top  of  a  mosque. 
He  understood  Ibrahim  the  Orderly  now ;  he 
guessed  all :  rebellion,  anarchy,  massacre.  A 
hundred  thoughts  ran  through  his  head  :  what 
was  Ibrahim's  particular  part  in  the  swagger- 
ing scheme  was  the  first  and  the  last  of  them. 

Ibrahim  answered  for  himself,  for  at  that 
moment  he  entered  the  burning  circle.  A 
movement  of  applause  ran  round,  then  there 
was  sudden  silence.  The  dancing-girls  were 
bid  to  stop  their   dancing,  were  told   to   be 

.103 


FIELDING    HAD  AN    ORDERLY 

gone.  The  Ghiizeeyeh  spat  at  them  in  an 
assumed  anger,  and  said  that  none  but  swine 
of  Beni  Hassan  would  send  a  Avoman  away 
hungiy.  And  because  the  dancing-girl  has 
power  in  the  land,  the  Sheikh-el-beled  waved 
his  hand  towards  the  cafe,  hastily  calling  the 
name  of  i  favourite  dish.  Eyes  turned  un- 
concernedly towards  the  brown  clattering 
ankles  of  the  two  as  they  entered  the  cafe 
and  seated  themselves  immediately  behind 
where  the  Sheikh-el-beled  squatted.  Present- 
ly Dicky  listened  to  as  sombre  a  tale  as  ever 
was  told  in  the  darkest  night.  The  voice  of 
the  tale-teller  was  that  of  Ibrahim,  and  the 
story:  that  the  citadel  at  Cairo  was  to  be 
seized,  that  the  streets  of  Alexandria  were  to 
be  swept  free  of  Europeans,  and  that  every 
English  official  between  Cairo  and  Kordofan 
was  to  be  slain.  Mahommed  Ibrahim,  the 
spy,  who  knew  English  as  well  as  Donovan 
Pasha  knew  Arabic,  was  this  very  night  to  kill 
Fielding  Bey  with  his  own  hand ! 

This  night  was  always  associated  in  Dicky's 
mind  with  the  memory  of  stewed  camel's- 
mcat.  At  Ibrahim's  words  he  turned  liis  head 
from  the  rank  steam,  and  fingered  his  pistol 
in  the  loose  folds  of  his  Arab  trousers.  The 
dancing-girl  saw  the  gesture  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

104. 


FIELDING    HAD   AN  ORDERLY 

"Thou  art  one  against  a  thousand,"  she 
whispered;  "wait  till  thou  art  one  against 
one." 

He  dipped  his  nose  in  the  camel-stew,  for 
some  one  poked  a  head  in  at  the  door — ^every 
sense  in  him  was  alert,  every  instinct  alive. 

"To-night,"  said  Mahommed  Ibrahim,  in 
the  hoarse  gutturals  of  the  Bishareen,  "  it  is 
ordered  that  Fielding  Bey  shall  die — and  by 
my  hand,  mine  own,  by  the  mercy  of  God ! 
And  after  Fielding  Bey  the  clean-faced  ape 
that  cast  the  evil  eye  upon  me  yesterday,  and 
bade  me  die.  '  An  old  man  had  three  sons,' 
said  he,  the  infidel  dog  !  '  one  was  a  thief,  an- 
other a  rogue,  and  the  third  a  soldier — and 
the  soldier  died  first.'  '  A  camel  of  Bagdad,' 
he  called  me.  Into  the  belly  of  a  dead  camel 
shall  he  go,  be  sewn  up  like  a  cat's  liver  in  a 
pudding,  and  cast  into  the  Nile  before  God 
gives  to-morrow  a  sun." 

Dicky  pushed  away  the  camel-stew.  "  It  is 
time  to  go,"  he  said. 

The  Ghazeeyeh  rose  with  a  laugh,  caught 
Dicky  by  the  hand,  sprang  out  among  the 
Arabs,  and  leapt  over  the  head  of  the  village 
barber,  calling  them  all  "  useless,  sodden  grey- 
beards, with  no  more  blood  than  a  Nile  shad, 
poorer  than  monkeys,  beggars  of  Beni  Has- 
san ! "     Taking  from  her  pocket  a  handful  of 

105 


FIELDING  HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

quarter-piastres,  she  turned  on  her  heels  and 
tossed  them  among  the  Arabs  with  a  con- 
temptuous hiugh.  Then  she  and  Dicky  dis- 
appeared into  the  night. 

II 

When  Dicky  left  her  house,  clothed  in  his 
own  garments  once  more,  but  the  stains  of 
henna  still  on  his  face  and  hands  and  ankles, 
he  pressed  into  the  Ghazeeyeh's  hand  ten  gold- 
pieces.     She  let  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

"  Love  is  love,  efFendi,"  she  said.  "  JNloney 
do  they  give  me  for  what  is  no  love.  She 
who  gives  freely  for  love  takes  naught  in  re- 
turn but  love,  by  the  will  of  (iod  !  "  And  she 
laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  There  is  work  to  do ! "  said  Dicky ;  and 
his  hand  dropped  to  where  his  pistol  lay — 
but  not  to  threaten  her.  He  was  tliinking  of 
others. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said;  "to-morrow  for 
that,  effendi,"  and  her  beautiful  eyes  hung 
upon  his. 

"  There's  corn  in  Egypt,  but  who  knows 
who'll  reap  it  to-morrow  ?  And  I  shall  be  in 
Cairo  to-morrow." 

"  I  also  shall  be  in  Cairo  to-morrow,  O  my 
lord  and  master  !  "  she  answered. 

106 


FIELDING   HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

*'  God  give  you  safe  journey,"  answered 
Dicky,  for  he  knew  it  was  useless  to  argue 
with  a  woman.  He  was  wont  to  say  that 
you  can  resolve  all  women  into  the  same 
simple  elements  in  the  end. 

Dicky  gave  a  long  perplexed  whistle  as  he 
ran  softly  under  the  palms  towards  the  Amen- 
hotep,  lounging  on  the  mud  bank.  Then  he 
dismissed  the  dancing-girl  from  his  mind,  for 
there  was  other  work  to  do.  How  he  should 
do  it  he  planned  as  he  opened  the  door  of 
Fieldmg's  cabin  softly,  and  saw  him  in  a  deep 
sleep. 

He  was  about  to  make  haste  on  deck  again, 
where  his  own  nest  was,  when,  glancing  through 
the  window,  he  saw  IMahommed  Ibrahim  steal- 
ing down  the  bank  to  the  boat's  side.  He 
softly  drew-to  the  little  curtain  of  the  cabin 
window,  leaving  only  one  small  space  through 
which  the  moonlight  streamed.  This  ray  of 
light  fell  just  across  the  door  through  which 
IMahommed  Ibrahim  would  enter.  The  cabin 
was  a  large  one,  the  bed  was  in  the  middle. 
At  the  head  was  a  curtain  slung  to  protect 
the  sleeper  from  the  cold  draughts  of  the  night. 

Dicky  heard  a  soft  footstep  in  the  compan- 
ionway,  then  before  the  door.  He  crept  be- 
hind the  curtain.  Mahommed  Ibrahim  was 
hstening  without.     Now  the  door  opened  very 

107 


FIELDING   HAD   AN  ORDERLY 

gently,  for  this  careful  Orderly  had  oiled  the 
hinges  that  very  day.  The  long  flabby  face, 
with  the  venomous  eyes,  showed  in  the  streak 
of  moonlight.  Mahommed  Ibrahim  slid  inside, 
took  a  step  forward  and  drew  a  long  knife  from 
his  sleeve.  Another  move  towards  the  sleep- 
ing man,  and  he  was  near  the  bed  ;  another, 
and  he  was  beside  it,  stooping  over  .  .  .  .  ! 

Now,  a  cold  pistol  suddenly  thrust  in  your 
face  is  disconcerting,  no  matter  how  well  laid 
your  plans.  It  was  useless  for  the  Orderly  to 
raise  his  hand :  a  bullet  is  quicker  than  the 
muscles  of  the  arm  and  the  stroke  of  a  knife. 

The  two  stood  silent  an  instant,  the  sleep- 
ing man  peaceful  between  them.  Dicky  made 
a  motion  of  his  head  towards  the  door.  INIa- 
liommed  Ibrahim  turned.  Dicky  did  not  lower 
his  pistol  as  the  Orderly,  obeying,  softly  went 
as  he  had  softly  come.  Out  through  the  door- 
way, up  the  stairs,  then  upon  the  moonlit  deck, 
the  cold  muzzle  of  the  pistol  at  the  head  of 
Mahommed  Ibrahim. 

Dicky  turned  now,  and  fiiced  him,  the  pistol 
still  pointed. 

Then  Mahommed  Ibrahim  spoke.  *' Ma- 
luish  I "  he  said.  That  was  contempt.  It  was 
Mahommedan  resignation  ;  it  was  the  inevi- 
table. "  Mdhdsh — no  matter  ! "  he  said  again  ; 
and  "  no  matter  "  was  in  good  English. 

108 


FIELDING    HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

Dicky's  back  was  to  the  light,  the  Orderly's 
face  in  the  full  glow  of  it.  Dicky  was  stand- 
ing beside  the  wire  communicating  with  the 
engineer's  cabin.  He  reached  out  his  hand 
and  pulled  the  hook.  The  bell  rang  below. 
The  two  above  stood  silent,  motionless,  the 
the  pistol  still  levelled. 

Holgate,  the  young  Yorkshire  engineer, 
pulled  himself  up  to  the  deck  two  steps  of  the 
ladder  at  a  time. 

*'  Y^es,  sir,"  he  said,  coming  forward  quickly, 
but  stopping  short  when  he  saw  the  levelled 
pistol. 

"  Drop  the  knife,  Ibrahim,"  said  Dicky  in  a 
low  voice.     The  Orderly  dropped  the  knife. 

"Get  it,  Holgate,"  said  Dicky;  and  Hol- 
gate stooped  and  picked  it  up.  Then  he  told 
Holgate  the  story  in  a  few  words.  The  en- 
gineer's fingers  tightened  on  the  knife. 

"Put  it  where  it  will  be  useful,  Holgate," 
said  Dicky.  Holgate  dropped  it  inside  his 
belt. 

"  Full  steam,  and  turn  her  nose  to  Cairo. 
No  time  to  lose ! "  He  had  told  Holgate 
earlier  in  the  evening  to  keep  up  steam. 

He  could  see  a  crowd  slowly  gathering 
under  the  palm  trees  between  the  shore  and 
Beni  Hassan.  They  were  waiting  for  Ma- 
hommed  Ibrahim's  signal. 

109 


FIELDING    HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

Holgate  was  below,  the  sailors  were  at  the 
cables. 

* '  Let  go  ropes  !  "  Dicky  called. 

A  minute  later  the  engine  was  quietly 
churning  away  below ;  two  minutes  later  the 
ropes  were  drawn  in;  half  a  minute  later  still 
the  nose  of  the  Amenhotep  moved  in  the  water. 
She  backed  from  the  Nile  mud,  lunged  free. 

"  An  old  man  had  three  sons ;  one  was  a 
thief,  another  a  rogue,  and  the  worst  of  the 
three  was  a  soldier — and  he  dies  first !  What 
have  you  got  to  say  before  you  say  your  pray- 
ers ? "  said  Dicky  to  the  Orderly. 

"  Majish  I "  answered  JNIahommed  Ibrahim, 
moveless.  "  Majish — nothing !  "  And  he  said 
"  nothing  "  in  good  English. 

"  Say  your  prayers  then,  Mahommed  Ibra- 
him," said  Dicky  in  that  voice  like  a  girl's; 
and  he  backed  a  little  till  he  rested  a  shoulder 
against  the  binnacle. 

JNIahommed  Ibrahim  turned  slightly  till  his 
face  was  towards  the  east.  The  pistol  now 
fell  in  range  with  his  ear.  The  Orderly  took 
off  his  shoes,  and,  standing  with  his  face  towards 
the  moon,  and  towards  Mecca,  he  murmured 
the  fatihali  from  the  Koran.  Three  times  he 
bowed,  afterwards  he  knelt  and  touched  the 
deck  with  his  forehead  three  times  also.  Then 
he  stood  up. 

110 


FIELDING    HAD   AN    ORDERLY 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  asked  Dicky. 

' '  Water !  "  answered  Mahommed  Ibrahim 
in  English. 

Dicky  had  forgotten  that  final  act  of  devo- 
tion of  the  good  Mahommedan.  There  was  a 
filter  of  Nile- water  near.  He  had  heard  it  go 
drip — drip,  drip — drip,  as  IMahommed  Ibra- 
him prayed. 

*'  Drink,"  he  said,  and  pointed  with  his 
finger. 

Mahommed  Ibrahim  took  the  little  tin  cup 
hanging  by  the  tap,  half  filled  it,  drank  it  off, 
and  noiselessly  put  the  cup  back  again.  Then 
he  stood  with  his  face  towards  the  pistol. 

"  The  game  is  with  the  English  all  the  time," 
said  Dicky  softly. 

"  Malaish  !  "  said  Mahommed. 

"  Jump,"  said  Dicky. 

One  instant's  pause,  and  then,  without  a 
sound,  Ibrahim  sprang  out  over  the  railing 
into  the  hard-running  current,  and  struck  out 
for  the  shore.  The  AmenJiotep  passed  him. 
He  was  in  the  grasp  of  a  whirlpool  so  strong 
that  it  twisted  the  Amenhotep  in  her  course. 
His  head  spun  round  like  a  water-fly,  and  out 
of  the  range  of  Dicky's  pistol  he  shrieked  to 
the  crowd  on  the  shore.  They  burst  from  the 
palm-trees  and  rushed  down  to  the  banks  Avith 
cries  of  rage,  murder,  and  death ;  for  now  they 

111 


FIELDING    HAD   AN   ORDERLY 

saw  him  fighting  for  his  life.  But  the  Amen- 
hotep's  nose  was  towards  Cairo,  and  steam  was 
full  on,  and  she  was  going  fast.  Holgate  be- 
low had  his  men  within  range  of  a  pistol  too. 
Dicky  looked  back  at  the  hopeless  fight  as  long 
as  he  could  see. 

Do\vn  in  his  cabin  Fielding  Bey  slept  peace- 
fully, and  dreamed  of  a  woman  in  Cairo. 


112 


THE  EYE  OF  THE  NEEDLE 

N  spite  of  being  an  Englishman 
with  an  Irish  name  and  a  ht- 
tle  Irish  blood,  Dicky  Donovan 
had  risen  high  in  the  fav^our  of 
the  Khedive,  remaining  still  the 
same  Dicky  Donovan  he  had 
always  been — astute  but  incor- 
tible.  While  he  was  favourite  he 
used  his  power  wisely,  and  it  was  a 
rer  which  had  life  and  death  be- 
hind it.  When  therefore,  one  day, 
he  asked  permission  to  take  a  jour- 
ney upon  a  certain  deadly  business 
of  justice,  the  Khedive  assented  to  all  he  asked, 
but,  fearing  for  his  safety,  gave  him  his  own 
ring  to  wear  and  a  line  under  his  seal. 

With  these  Dicky  set  forth  for  El  Medineh 
in  the  Fayoum,  where  his  important  business 
lay.  As  he  cantered  away  from  El  \Vasta,  out 
through  the  gi-een  valley  and  on  into  the  desert 
where  stands  the  Pyramid  of  Maydoum,  he 
turned  his  business  over  and  over  in  his  mind, 

113 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

that  he  might  study  it  from  a  hundred  sides. 
For  miles  he  did  not  see  a  human  being:  only 
a  caravan  of  camels  in  the  distance,  some  vult- 
ures overhead,  and  the  smoke  of  the  train  be- 
hind him  by  the  great  river.  Suddenly,  how- 
ever, as  he  cantered  over  the  crest  of  a  hill, 
he  saw  in  the  desert-trail  before  him  a  foot- 
traveller,  who  turned  round  hastily,  almost 
nervously,  at  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  slim,  handsome  youth, 
perhaps  twenty,  perhaps  thirty.  The  face  was 
clean-shaven,  and  though  the  body  seemed 
young  and  the  face  was  unlined,  the  eyes  were 
terribly  old.  Pathos  and  fanaticism  were  in 
the  look,  so  Dicky  Donovan  thought.  He 
judged  the  young  Arab  to  be  one  of  the  Holy 
Men  who  lived  by  the  gifts  of  the  people,  and 
who  do  strange  acts  of  devotion ;  such  as  sitting 
in  one  place  for  twenty  years,  or  going  without 
clothes,  or  chanting  the  Koran  ten  hours  a 
day,  or  cutting  themselves  with  knives.  But 
this  young  man  was  clothed  in  the  plain  blue 
calico  of  the  fellali,  and  on  his  head  was  a 
coarse  brown  fez  of  raw  wool.  Yet  round  the 
brown  fez  was  a  green  clotli,  whicli  may  only 
be  worn  by  one  who  has  been  a  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca. 

"  Nehar-ak  koom  mid — God  be  with  you  I " 
said  Dicky  in  Arabic. 

114 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

*'  Ncha7'-ak  said,  cffendi — God  prosper  thy 
greatness!"  was  the  reply,  in  a  voice  as  full 
as  a  man's,  but  as  soft  as  a  woman's — an  un- 
usual thing  in  an  Arab. 

"  Have  you  travelled  far  ?  "  asked  Dicky. 

"  From  the  Pyramid  of  Maydoum,  effendi," 
was  the  quiet  reply. 

Dicky  laughed.  "  A  poor  tavern ;  cold 
sleeping  there,  INlahommed." 

"  The  breath  of  Allah  is  warm,"  answered 
the  Arab. 

Dicky  liked  the  lad's  answer.  Putting  a 
hand  in  his  saddle-bag,  he  drew  out  a  cake  of 
dourha  bread  and  some  onions — for  he  made 
shift  to  Uve  as  the  people  lived,  lest  he  should 
be  caught  unawares  some  time,  and  die  of  the 
remembrance  of  too  much  luxury  in  the  midst 
of  frugal  fare. 

"  Plenty  be  in  your  home,  Mahommed  !  "  he 
said,  and  held  out  the  bread  and  onions. 

The  slim  hands  came  up  at  once  and  took 
the  food,  the  eyes  flashed  a  strange  look  at 
Dicky.  "  God  give  you  plenty  upon  your 
plenty,  efFendi,  and  save  your  soul  and  the 
souls  of  your  wife  and  children,  if  it  be  your 
will,  efFendi ! " 

"  I  have  no  wife,  praise  be  to  God,"  said 
Dicky ;  "  but  if  I  had,  her  soul  would  be  saved 
before  my  own,  or  Im  a  Dutchman  ! "     Then 

115 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

something  moved  him  further,  and  he  unbut- 
toned his  pocket— for  there  really  was  a  button 
to  Dicky's  pocket.  He  drew  out  a  five-piastre 
piece,  and  held  it  down  to  the  young  Arab. 
"  For  the  home-coming  after  Mecca,"  he  said, 
and  smiled. 

The  young  Arab  drew  back.  "  I  will  eat 
thy  bread,  but  no  more,  effendi,"  he  said 
quickly. 

"Then  you're  not  what  I  thought  you 
were,"  said  Dicky  under  his  breath,  and,  with 
a  quick  good-bye,  struck  a  heel  into  the  horse's 
side  and  galloped  away  towards  El  Medineh. 

In  El  Medineh  Dicky  went  about  his  busi- 
ness— a  bitter  business  it  was,  as  all  Egypt 
came  to  know.  For  four  days  he  pursued  it, 
without  halting  and  in  some  danger,  for,  dis- 
guise himself  as  he  would  in  his  frequenting  of 
the  cafes,  his  iVrabic  was  not  yet  wholly  perfect. 
Sometimes  he  went  about  in  European  dress, 
and  that  was  equally  dangerous,  for  in  those 
days  the  Fayoum  was  a  nest  of  brigandage  and 
murder,  and  an  European — an  infidel  dog — 
was  fair  game. 

Hut  Dicky  had  two  friends  :  the  village  bar- 
ber, and  the  moghassil  of  the  dead,  or  body- 
washer,  who  were  in  his  pay ;  and  for  tlie 
moment   they  were   loyal   to  him.     For   his 

116 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

purpose,  too,  they  were  the  most  useful  of 
mercenaries  :  for  the  duties  of  a  barber  are 
those  of  a  valet-de~chambre^  a  doctor,  registrar 
and  sanitary  officer  combined;  and  his  coadju- 
tor in  information  and  gossip  was  the  mog- 
hassil,  who  sits  and  waits  for  some  one  to  die, 
as  a  raven  on  a  housetop  waits  for  carrion. 

Dicky  was  patient,  but  as  the  days  went  by 
and  nothing  came  of  all  his  searching,  his  lips 
tightened  and  his  eyes  became  more  restless. 
One  day,  as  he  sat  in  his  doorway  twisting 
and  turning  things  in  his  mind,  with  an  ugly 
knot  in  his  temper,  the  barber  came  to  him 
quickly. 

"  Saadat  el  basha,  I  have  found  the  Ensf- 
lishwoman,  by  the  mercy  of  Allah  ! " 

Dicky  looked  at  Achmed  Hariri  for  a  mo- 
ment without  stirring  or  speaking;  his  hps 
relaxed,  his  eyes  softening  with  satisfaction. 

"  She  is  living  ?  " 

"  But  living,  saadat  el  basha." 

Dicky  started  to  his  feet.  "  At  the  mudir- 
ieh?" 

"  At  the  house  of  Azra,  the  seller  of  sherbet, 
saadat  el  basha." 

"  When  did  she  leave  the  mudirieh  ?  " 

"  A  week  past,  efFendi." 

"  Why  did  she  leave  ? " 

"  None  knows  save  the  sister  of  Azra,  who 
9  117 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

is  in  the  harem.     The  Englishwoman  was  kind 
to  her  when  she  was  ill,  and  she  gave  her  aid." 
"  The  Mudir  has  not  tried  to  find  her?  " 
"  AVill  the  robber  make  a  noise  if  the  horse 
he  has  stolen  breaks  free,  efFendi  ?  " 
"  Why  has  she  not  flown  the  place  ? " 
"Effendi,    shall    the    broken-winged    bird 

fly!" 

"  She  is  ill  ?  "  He  caught  the  barber  by  the 
arm. 

"  As  a  gazelle  with  an  arrow  in  its  breast." 

Dicky's  small  hand  tightened  like  a  vice  on 
the  barbers  thin  arm.  "And  he  who  sped  the 
arrow,  Achmed  Hariri  ?  " 

Achmed  Hariri  was  silent. 

"  Shall  he  not  die  the  death  ?  " 

Achmed  Hariri  shrank  back. 

Dicky  drew  from  his  pocket  a  paper  with 
seals,  and  held  it  up  to  the  barber  s  eyes.  The 
barber  stared,  drew  back,  salaamed,  bowed  his 
head,  and  put  a  hand  upon  liis  turban  as  a 
slave  to  his  master. 

"  Show  me  the  way,  IMahommed,"  said 
Dicky,  and  stepped  out. 

Two  hours  later  Dicky,  with  pale  face,  and 
fingers  clutching  liis  heavy  riding- whip  fiercely, 
came  quickly  towards  the  bridge  where  he 
must  cross  to  go  to  the  mudirieh.     Suddenly 

118 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

he  heard  an  uproar,  and  saw  men  hurrying  on 
in  front  of  him.  He  quickened  his  footsteps, 
and  presently  came  to  a  house  on  which  had 
been  freshly  painted  those  rough,  staring  pict- 
ures of  "  accidents  by  flood  and  field,"  which 
Mecca  pilgrims  paint  on  their  houses  like 
hatchments,  on  their  safe  return — proclamation 
of  their  prestige. 

Presently  he  saw  in  the  grasp  of  an  infuri- 
ated crowd  the  Arab  youth  he  had  met  in  the 
desert,  near  the  PjTamid  of  Maydoum,  Exe- 
crations, murderous  cries  arose  from  the  mob. 
The  youth's  face  was  deathly  pale,  but  it  had 
no  fear.  Upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
hung  women,  their  robes  drawn  half  over  their 
faces,  crying  out  for  the  young  man's  death. 
Dicky  asked  the  ghaffir  standing  by  what  the 
youth  had  done. 

"  It  is  no  youth,  but  a  woman,"  he  answered  : 
"the  last  wife  of  the  Mudir.  In  a  man's 
clothes " 

He  paused,  for  the  head  sheikh  of  El  jMe- 
dineh,  with  two  Ulema,  entered  the  throng. 
The  crowd  fell  back.  Presently  the  Sheikh- 
el- beled  mounted  the  mastaba  by  tlie  house, 
the  holy  men  beside  him,  and  pointing  to  the 
Arab  youth,  spoke  loudly  : 

"  This  sister  of  scorpions  and  crocodiles  has 
earned  a  thousand  deaths.     She  was  a  daughter 

119 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

of  a  pasha,  and  was  lifted  high.  She  was  made 
the  wife  of  Abbas  Bey,  our  Mudir.  Like  a  wan- 
ton beast  she  cut  off  her  hair,  clothed  herself 
as  a  man,  journeyed  to  Mecca,  and  desecrated 
the  tomb  of  JNIahomet,  who  hath  written  that 
no  woman,  save  her  husband  of  his  goodness 
bring  her,  shall  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

He  paused,  and  pointed  to  the  rough  pict- 
ures on  the  walls.  "  This  morning,  dressed  as 
a  man,  she  went  in  secret  to  the  sacred  pur- 
ple pillar  for  barren  women  in  the  Mosque  of 
Amrar,  by  the  Bahr-el-Yusef,  and  was  found 
there  with  her  tongue  to  it.  What  shall  be 
done  to  this  accursed  tree  in  the  garden  of  Ma- 
homet ? " 

"  Cut  it  down  ! "  shouted  the  crowd  ;  and 
the  Ulema  standing  beside  the  Sheikh-el-beled 
said,  "  Cut  down  forever  the  accursed  tree." 

"  To-morrow,  at  sunrise,  she  shall  die  as  a 
blasphemer,  this  daughter  of  Sheitan  the  Evil 
One,"  continued  the  holy  men. 

"  What  saith  the  Mudir  ?"  cried  a  tax-gath- 
erer. 

"  The  Mudir  himself  shall  see  her  die  at 
sunrise,"  said  the  chief  of  the  Ulema. 

Shouts  of  hideous  joy  went  up.  At  that 
moment  the  woman's  eyes  met  Dicky's,  and 
they  suddenly  lighted.  Dicky  picked  his  way 
through    the    crowd,   and    stood    before   the 

120 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

Sheikh-el-beled.     With    an   Arab   salute,   he 
said : 

"  I  am,  as  you  know,  my  brother,  a  friend 
of  our  master  the  Khedive,  and  I  carry  his  ring 
on  my  finger." 

The  Sheikh-el-beled  salaamed  as  Dicky  held 
up  his  hand,  and  a  murmur  ran  through  the 
crowd.  "  What  you  have  done  to  the  woman 
is  well  done,  and  according  to  your  law  she 
should  die.  But  will  ye  not  let  her  tell  her 
story,  so  it  may  be  written  down,  that  when 
perchance  evil  voices  carry  the  tale  to  the 
Khedive  he  shall  have  her  own  words  for  her 
condemnation  ? " 

The  Ulema  looked  at  the  Sheikh-el-beled, 
and  he  made  answer :  "It  is  well  said ;  let 
the  woman  speak,  and  her  words  be  written 
down." 

"  Is  it  meet  that  all  should  hear  ? "  asked 
Dicky,  for  he  saw  the  look  in  the  woman's 
eyes.  "  Will  she  not  speak  more  freely  if  we 
be  few  ? " 

"  Let  her  be  taken  into  the  house,"  said  the 
Sheikh-el-beled.  Turning  to  the  holy  men,  he 
added,  "  Ye  and  the  Inglesi  shall  hear." 

When  they  were  within  the  house,  the 
woman  was  brought  in  and  stood  before  them. 

"Speak,"  said  the  Sheikh-el-beled  to  her 
roughly. 

121 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  Dicky  as  she 
spoke : 

"  For  the  thing  I  have  done  I  sliall  answer. 
I  had  no  joy  in  the  harem.  I  gave  no  child  to 
my  lord,  though  often  I  put  my  tongue  to  the 
sacred  pillar  of  porphyry  in  the  Mosque  of 
Amrar.  My  lord's  love  went  from  me.  I  was 
placed  beneath  another  in  the  harem.  .  .  . 
Was  it  well  ?  Did  I  not  love  my  lord  ? — was 
the  sin  mine  that  no  child  was  born  to  him  ? 
It  is  written  that  a  woman's  prayers  are  of  no 
avail,  that  her  lord  must  save  her  at  the  last, 
if  she  hath  a  soul  to  be  saved.  .  .  .  Was  the 
love  of  my  lord  mine  ?  "  She  paused,  caught 
a  corner  of  her  robe  and  covered  her  face. 

"  Speak  on,  O  woman  of  many  sorrows," 
said  Dicky. 

She  partly  uncovered  her  face,  and  spoke 
again : 

"  In  the  long  niglit,  when  he  came  not  and 
I  was  lonely  and  I  cried  aloud,  and  only  the 
jackals  beyond  my  window  answered,  I  thought 
and  thought.  My  brain  was  wild,  and  at  last 
I  said,  '  15ehold,  I  will  go  to  Mecca  as  the  men 
go,  and  wlien  the  fire  rises  from  the  Prophet's 
tomb,  bringing  blessing  and  life  to  all,  it  may 
be  that  1  shall  have  peace,  and  win  heaven  as 
men  win  it.  For  behold  !  what  is  my  body 
but  a  man's  body,  for  it  beareth  no  child.    And 

TOO 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

what  is  my  soul  but  a  man's  soul,  that  dares 
to  do  this  thing ! '  .  .  ." 

"  Thou  art  a  blasphemer,"  broke  in  the  chief 
of  the  Ulema. 

She  gave  no  heed,  but  with  her  eyes  on 
Dicky  continued : 

"  So  I  stole  forth  in  the  night  with  an  old 
slave,  who  was  my  father's  slave,  and  together 
we  went  to  Cairo.  .  .  .  Behold,  I  have  done 
all  that  Dervishes  do  :  I  have  cut  myself  with 
knives,  I  have  walked  the  desert  alone,  I  have 
lain  beneath  the  feet  of  the  Sheikh's  horse 
when  he  makes  his  ride  over  the  bodies  of  the 
faithful,  I  have  done  all  that  a  woman  may  do 
and  all  that  a  man  may  do,  for  the  love  I  bore 
my  lord.  Now  judge  me  as  ye  will,  for  I  may 
do  no  more." 

When  she  had  finished,  Dicky  turned  to 
the  Sheikh-el-beled  and  said,  "  She  is  mad. 
Behold,  Allah  hath  taken  her  wits  !  She 
is  no  more  than  a  wild  bird  in  the  wilder- 
ness." 

It  was  his  one  way  to  save  her ;  for  among 
her  people  the  mad,  the  blind,  and  the  idiot 
are  reputed  highly  favoured  of  God. 

The  Sheikh-el-beled  shook  his  head.  "  She 
is  a  blasphemer.  Her  words  are  as  the  words 
of  one  who  holds  the  sacred  sword  and  speaks 
from  the  high  pulpit,"  he  said  sternly;  and  his 

123 


THE  EYE   OF  THE   NEEDLE 

dry  lean  face  hungered  like  a  wolf's  for  the 
blood  of  the  woman. 

"  She  has  blasphemed,"  said  the  Ulema. 

Outside  the  house,  quietness  had  given  place 
to  murmuring,  murmuring  to  a  noise,  and  a 
noise  to  a  tumult,  through  which  the  yelping 
and  howling  of  the  village  dogs  streamed. 

"  She  shall  be  torn  to  pieces  by  wild  dogs," 
said  the  Sheikh-el-beled. 

*'  Let  her  choose  her  own  death,"  said  Dicky 
softly  ;  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  he  puffed  it 
indolently  into  the  face  of  the  Arab  sitting 
beside  him.  For  Dicky  had  many  ways  of 
showing  hatred,  and  his  tobacco  was  strong. 
The  sea  has  its  victims,  so  had  Dicky's  to- 
bacco. 

"  The  way  of  her  death  sliall  be  as  we 
choose,"  said  the  Sheikh-el-beled,  his  face 
growing  blacker,  his  eyes  enlarging  in  fury. 

Dicky  yawned  slightly,  his  eyes  half  closed. 
He  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  excoriating 
caporal,  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  then 
softly  ejected  it  in  a  cloud  whicli  brought 
water  to  the  eyes  of  the  Sheikh-el-beled. 
Dicky  was  very  angry,  but  he  did  not  look  it. 
His  voice  was  meditative,  almost  languid  as 
he  said  : 

"  That  the  woman  should  die  seems  just  and 
right — if  by  your  kindness  and  the  mercy  of 

124 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

God  ye  will  let  me  speak.     But  this  is  no  court, 
it  is  no  law:  it  is  mere  justice  ye  would  do." 

"  It  is  the  will  of  the  people,"  the  chief  of 
the  Ulema  interjected.  "  It  is  the  will  of 
Mussulmans,  of  our  religion,  of  Mahomet,"  he 
said. 

"  True,  O  beloved  of  Heaven,  who  shall  live 
for  ever,"  said  Dicky,  his  lips  lost  in  an  odor- 
ous cloud  of  "  ordinaire."  "  But  there  be  evil 
tongues  and  evil  hearts ;  and  if  some  son  of 
liars,  some  brother  of  foolish  tales,  should  bear 
false  witness  upon  this  thing  before  our  master 
the  Khedive,  or  his  gentle  JVIoufFetish " 

"  His  gentle  INlouffetish  "  was  scarcely  the 
name  to  apply  to  Sadik  Pasha,  the  terrible 
right-hand  of  the  Khedive.  But  Dicky's 
tongue  was  in  his  cheek. 

"  There  is  the  Mudir,"  said  the  Sheikh-el- 
beled  :  "he  hath  said  that  the  woman  should 
die,  if  she  were  found." 

"  True  ;  but  if  the  JMudir  should  die,  where 
would  be  his  testimony  ?  "  said  Dicky,  and  his 
eyes  half  closed,  as  though  in  idle  contempla- 
tion of  a  pleasing  theme.  "  Now,"  he  added, 
still  more  negligently,  "  I  shall  see  our  master 
the  Khedive  before  the  moon  is  full.  Were 
it  not  well  that  I  should  be  satisfied  for  my 
friends  ?  " 

Dicky  smiled,  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the 
125 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

Mussulmans  with  an  incorruptible  innocence  ; 
he  ostentatiously  waved  the  cigarette  smoke 
away  with  the  hand  on  which  was  the  ring  the 
Khedive  had  given  him. 

"  Thy  tongue  is  as  the  light  of  a  star,"  said 
the  bright-eyed  Sheikh-el-beled ;  "  wisdom 
dwelleth  with  thee." 

The  woman  took  no  notice  of  what  they 
said.  Her  face  showed  no  sign  of  what  she 
thought ;  her  eyes  were  unwaveringly  fixed  on 
the  distance. 

"  She  shall  choose  her  own  death,"  said  the 
Sheikh-el-beled  ;  "  and  I  will  bear  word  to  the 
Mudir." 

"  I  dine  with  the  Mudir  to-night ;  I  will 
carry  the  word,"  said  Dicky;  "and  the  death 
that  the  woman  shall  die  will  be  the  death  he 
will  choose." 

The  woman's  eyes  came  like  lightning  from 
the  distance,  and  fastened  upon  his  face.  Then 
he  said,  with  the  back  of  his  hand  to  his 
mouth  to  hide  a  yawn  : 

"  The  manner  of  her  death  will  please  the 
Mudir.     It  must  please  him." 

"  What  deatli  does  this  vulture  among 
women  choose  to  die  ?  "  said  the  Sheikh-el- 
beled. 

Her  answer  could  scarcely  be  heard  in  the 
roar  and  the  riot  surrounding  the  hut. 

126 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

A  half-hour  later  Dicky  entered  the  room 
where  the  JNIudir  sat  on  his  divan  drinking  his 
coffee.  The  great  man  looked  up  in  angry  as- 
tonishment— for  Dicky  had  come  unannounced 
— and  his  fat  hands  twitched  on  his  breast, 
where  they  had  been  folded.  His  sallow  face 
turned  a  little  gi-een.  Dicky  made  no  saluta- 
tion. 

"  Dog  of  an  infidel !"  said  the  Mudir  under 
his  breath. 

Dicky  heard,  but  did  no  more  than  fasten 
his  eyes  upon  the  JMudir  for  a  moment. 

"  Your  business  ?  "  said  the  Mudir. 

"The  business  of  the  Khedive,"  answered 
Dicky,  and  his  riding-whip  tapped  his  leg- 
gings. "  I  have  come  about  the  English  girl." 
As  he  said  this,  he  lighted  a  cigarette  slowly, 
looking,  as  it  were  casually,  into  the  JMudir's 
eyes. 

The  Mudir's  hand  ran  out  like  a  snake  to- 
wards a  bell  on  the  cushions,  but  Dicky  shot 
forward  and  caught  the  wrist  in  his  slim,  steel- 
like fingers.  There  was  a  hard  glitter  in  his 
eyes  as  he  looked  down  into  the  eyes  of  the 
master  of  a  hundred  slaves,  the  ruler  of  a 
province. 

"  I  have  a  command  of  the  Khedive  to  bring 
you  to  Cairo,  and  to  kill  you  if  you  resist," 
said   Dicky.     "  Sit .  still — you   had  better  sit 

127 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

still,"  he  added,  in  a  soothing  voice  behind 
which  was  a  deadly  authority. 

The  INIudir  licked  his  dry,  colourless  lips, 
and  gasped  ;  for  he  might  make  an  outcry,  but 
he  saw  that  Dicky  would  be  quicker.  He  had 
been  too  long  enervated  by  indulgence  to  make 
a  fight. 

"  You'd  better  take  a  drink  of  water,"  said 
Dicky,  seating  himself  upon  a  Louis  Quinze 
chair,  a  relic  of  civilisation  brought  by  the 
INIudir  from  Paris  into  an  antique  barbarism. 
Then  he  added  sternly,  "  What  have  you  done 
with  the  English  girl  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  an  Enghsh  girl,"  an- 
swered the  Mudir. 

Dicky's  words  were  chosen  as  a  jeweller 
chooses  stones  for  the  ring  of  a  betrothed 
woman.  "  Y^'ou  had  a  friend  in  London,  a 
brother  of  hell  like  yourself.  He,  like  you, 
had  lived  in  Paris ;  and  tliat  is  wliy  this  thing 
happened.  Y"ou  had  your  own  women  slaves 
from  Kordofan,  from  Cu'cassia,  from  Syria, 
from  your  own  land.  It  was  not  enough: 
you  must  have  an  English  girl  in  your  harem. 
Y''ou  knew  you  could  not  buy  her,  you  knew 
that  none  would  come  to  you  for  love,  neither 
the  drab  nor  the  lady.  None  would  lay  her 
hand  in  that  of  a  leprous  dog  like  yourself. 
So  you  lied,  your  friend  lied  for  you — sons  of 

128 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

dogs  of  liars  all  of  you,  beasts  begotten  of 
beasts  !  You  must  have  a  governess  for  your 
children,  forsooth  !  And  the  girl  was  told  she 
would  come  to  a  palace.  She  came  to  a  stable, 
and  to  shame  and  murder." 

Dicky  paused. 

The  fat,  greasy  hands  of  the  Mudir  fumbled 
towards  the  water-glass.  It  was  empty,  but 
he  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  drained  the  air. 

Dicky's  eyes  fastened  him  like  arrows. 
"  The  girl  died  an  hour  ago,"  he  continued. 
"  I  was  with  her  when  she  died.  You  must 
pay  the  price.  Abbas  Bey."     He  paused. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  a 
voice,  dry  like  that  of  one  who  comes  out  of 
chloroform,  said,  "  What  is  the  price  ?  " 

The  little  touch  of  cruelty  in  Dicky's  nat- 
ure, working  with  a  sense  of  justice  and  an 
ever  ingenious  mind,  gave  a  pleasant  quietness 
to  the  inveterate  hate  that  possessed  him.  He 
thought  of  another  woman — of  her  who  was 
to  die  to-morrow. 

"  There  was  another  woman,"  said  Dicky: 
*'  one  of  your  own  people.  She  was  given  a  mind 
and  a  soul.  You  deserted  her  in  your  harem 
— what  was  there  left  for  her  to  think  of  but 
death  ?  She  had  no  child.  But  death  was  a 
black  prospect ;  for  you  would  go  to  heaven, 
and  she  would  be  in  the  outer  darkness  ;  and 

129 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

she  loved  you !  A  woman's  brain  thinks  wild 
things.  She  fled  from  you,  and  went  the  pil- 
grimage to  Mecca.  She  did  all  that  a  man 
might  do  to  save  her  soul,  according  to  Ma- 
houict.  She  is  to  die  to-morrow  by  the  will 
of  the  people — and  the  Mudir  of  the  Fay- 
oum." 

Dicky  paused  once  more.  He  did  not  look 
at  the  Mudir,  but  out  of  the  window  towards 
the  Bahr-el- Yusef,  where  the  Fellaheen  of  the 
Mudir's  estate  toiled  like  beasts  of  burden  with 
the  barges  and  the  great  khiassas  laden  with 
cotton  and  sugar-cane. 

"  God  make  your  words  merciful ! "  said  the 
Mudir.     "  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"  The  Khedive,  our  master,  has  given  me 
your  life,"  said  Dicky.  "  I  will  make  your  end 
easy.  The  woman  has  done  much  to  save  her 
soul.  She  buries  her  face  in  the  dust  because 
she  hath  no  salvation.  It  is  written  in  the 
Koran  that  a  man  may  save  the  soul  of  his 
wife.  You  luive  your  choice  :  will  you  come 
to  Cairo  to  Sadik  Paslia,  and  be  crucified  like 
a  bandit  of  your  own  province,  or  will  you  die 
with  the  woman  in  the  Birket-el-Kurun  to- 
morrow at  sunrise,  and  walk  with  her  into  the 
Presence  and  save  her  soul,  and  pay  the  price 
of  the  English  hfe?" 

"  Malcmh  I  "  answered  the  Mudir.  "  Water," 
130 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

he  added  quickly.  He  had  no  power  to  move, 
for  fear  had  paralysed  him.  Dicky  brought 
him  a  goolah  of  water. 

The  next  morning,  at  sunrise,  a  strange 
procession  drew  near  to  the  Birket-el-Kurun. 
Twenty  ghaffirs  went  ahead  with  their  na- 
boots;  then  came  the  kavasses,  then  the 
Mudir  mounted,  with  Dicky  riding  beside,  his 
hand  upon  the  holster  where  his  pistol  was. 
The  face  of  the  Mudir  was  like  a  wrinkled 
skin  of  lard,  his  eyes  had  the  look  of  one 
drunk  with  hashish.  Behind  them  came  the 
woman,  and  now  upon  her  face  there  was  only 
a  look  of  peace.  The  distracted  gaze  had  gone 
from  her  eyes,  and  she  listened  without  a 
tremor  to  the  voices  of  the  wailers  behind. 

Twenty  yards  from  the  lake,  Dicky  called 
a  halt— Dicky,  not  the  IMudir.  The  soldiers 
came  forward  and  put  heavy  chains  and  a  ball 
upon  the  woman's  ankles.  The  woman  car- 
ried the  ball  in  her  arms  to  the  very  verge  of 
the  lake,  by  the  deep  pool  called  "  The  Pool 
of  the  Slaughtered  One." 

Dickey  turned  to  the  IMudir.  "  Are  you 
ready  ?  "  he  said. 

"  InshaUah  !  "  said  the  JNIudir. 

The  soldiers  made  a  line,  but  the  crowd 
overlapped  the  line.     The  Fellaheen  and  Bed- 

131 


THE   EYE   OF   THE   NEEDLE 

oiiins  looked  to  see  the  Mudir  summon  the 
Ulema  to  condemn  the  woman  to  shame  and 
darkness  everlasting.  But  suddenly  Abbas 
Bey  turned  and  took  the  woman's  right  hand 
in  his  left. 

Her  eyes  opened  in  an  ecstasy.  "  O  lord 
and  master,  I  go  to  heaven  with  thee !  "  she 
said,  and  threw  herself  forward. 

Without  a  sound  the  heavy  body  of  tlie 
JVIudir  lurched  forward  with  her,  and  they 
sank  into  the  water  together.  A  cry  of  horror 
and  wonder  burst  from  the  crowd. 

Dicky  turned  to  them,  and  raised  both 
hands. 

"  In  the  name  of  our  Master  the  Khedive  I " 
he  cried. 

Above  the  spot  where  the  two  had  sunk 
floated  the  red  tarboosh  of  the  Mudir  of  the 
Fayoum. 


132 


A  TREATY   OF  PEACE 


R.  WILLIAM  SOWERBY, 

lieutenant  in  the  Mounted 
Infantry,  was  in  a  difficult 
situation,  out  of  which  he 
was  little  likely  to  come 
with  credit — or  his  Hfe.  It  is 
a  dangerous  thing  to  play  with 
fire,  so  it  is  said ;  it  is  a  more  dan- 
gerous thing  to  walk  rough-shod 
over  Oriental  customs.  A  man 
ere  this  has  lost  his  life  by  carrying 
his  shoe-leather  across  the  thresh- 
old of  a  mosque,  and  this  sort  of  thing  Will- 
iam Sowerby  knew,  and  of  his  knowledge  he 
heeded.  He  did  not  heed  another  thing,  how- 
ever ;  which  is,  that  Oriental  ladies  are  at 
home  to  but  one  man  in  all  the  world,  and 
that  your  acquaintance  with  them  must  be 
modified  by  a  mushrabieh  screen,  a  yashmak, 
a  shaded,  fast-driving  brougham,  and  a  hideous 
eunuch. 

10  133 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

William  Sowerby  had  not  been  long  in 
Egypt,  and  he  had  not  travelled  very  far  or 
very  wide  in  the  Orient ;  and  he  was  an  im- 
pressionable and  harmless  young  man  whose 
bark  and  bite  were  of  equal  value.  His  ideas 
of  a  harem  were  inaccurately  based  on  the  leg- 
end that  it  is  necessarily  the  habitation  of 
many  wives  and  concubines  and  sla\'es.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be 
a  sort  of  family  life  in  a  harem ;  that  a  pasha 
or  a  bey  might  have  daughters  as  well  as 
wives;  or  might  have  only  one  wife — which  is 
less  expensive ;  and  that  a  harem  is  not  neces- 
sarily the  heaven  of  a  voluptuary,  an  elysium 
of  rosy-petalled  love  and  passion.  Yet  he 
might  have  known  "it  all,  and  should  have 
known  it  all,  if  he  had  taken  one-fifth  of  the 
time  to  observe  and  study  Egyptian  life  which 
he  gave  to  polo  and  golf  and  racquets.  Yet 
even  if  he  had  known  the  life  from  many  stand- 
points he  would  still  have  cherished  illusions, 
for,  as  Dicky  Donovan,  wlio  had  a  sense  of 
satire,  said  in  some  satirical  lines,  the  cher- 
ished amusement  of  more  than  one  dinner- 
table  : 

"  Oh,  William  William  Sowerby 
Has  come  out  for  to  see 
The  way  of  a  hiuilui.slii 
With  Egyptian  C  avalree, 
134. 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

But  William  William  Sowerby 

His  eyes  do  open  wide 
When  he  sees  the  Pasha's  chosen 
In  her  "  bruggam  "  and  her  pride. 
And  William  William  Sowerby, 

He  has  a  tender  smile, 
Which  will  bring  him  in  due  season 

To  the  waters  of  the  Nile — 

And  the  cheery  crocodile  !  " 

It  can  scarcely  be  said  that  Dicky  was 
greatly  surprised  when  INIahommed  Yeleb,  the 
servant  of  "  William  William  Sowerby,"  came 
rapping  at  his  door  one  hot  noonday  with  a 
dark  tale  of  disaster  to  his  master.  This  was 
the  heart  of  the  thing — A  languid,  bored,  in- 
viting face,  and  two  dark  curious  eyes  in  a 
slow-driving  brougham  out  on  the  Pyramid 
Road  ;  Wilham's  tender,  answering  smile  ;  his 
horse  galloping  behind  to  within  a  discreet  dis- 
tance of  the  palace,  where  the  lady  alighted, 
shadowed  by  the  black-coated  eunuch.  The 
same  thing  for  several  days,  then  a  device  to 
let  the  lady  know  his  name,  then  a  httle  note 
half  in  Arabic,  half  in  French,  so  mysterious, 
so  fascinating — AViUiam  Sowerby  walked  on 
air!  llien,  a  nocturnal  going  forth,  followed 
by  his  frightened  servant,  who  dared  not  give  a 
warning,  for  fear  of  the  ever-ready  belt  which 
had  scarred  his  back  erstwhile  ;  the  palace  wall, 
an  opening  door,  the  figure  of  his  master  pass- 

135 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

ing  through,  the  closing  gate ;  and  then  no 
more  —  nothing  more,  for  a  long  thirty-six 
hours ! 

Mahommed  Yeleb's  face  would  have  been 
white  if  his  skin  had  permitted — it  was  a 
sickly  yellow;  his  throat  was  guttural  with 
anxiety,  his  eyes  furtive  and  strained,  for  was 
he  not  the  servant  of  his  master,  and  might 
not  he  be  marked  for  the  early  tomb  if,  as  he 
was  sure,  his  master  was  gone  that  way  ? 

"  Aiwa,  effe?idi,  it  is  sure,"  he  said  to  Dicky 
Donovan,  who  never  was  surprised  at  anything 
that  happened.  He  had  no  fear  of  anything 
that  breathed;  and  he  kept  his  place  with 
Ismail  because  he  told  the  truth  pitilessly,  was 
a  poorer  man  than  the  Khedive's  barber,  and  a 
beggar  beside  the  Chief  Eunuch ;  also,  because 
he  had  a  real  understanding  of  the  Oriental 
mind,  together  with  a  rich  sense  of  humour. 

"What  is  sure?  "said  Dicky  to  tlie  Arab 
with  assumed  composure ;  for  it  was  important 
that  he  should  show  neither  anxiety  nor  as- 
tonishment, lest  panic  seize  the  man,  and  he 
rush  abroad  with  grave  scandal  streaming  from 
his  mouth,  and  the  English  fat  be  in  the 
Egyptian  firevfor  ever.  "What  is  sure,  JNIa- 
hommed  Yeleb?"  repeated  Dicky,  lighting  a 
cigarette  idly. 

"  It  is  as  Ciod  wills ;  but  as  the  tongue  of 
136 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

man  speaks,  so  is  he — Bimbashi  Sowerby  my 
master — swallowed  up  these  thirty-six  hours 
in  the  tomb  prepared  for  him  by  Selamlik 
Pasha." 

Dicky  felt  his  eyelids  twitch,  and  he  almost 
gave  a  choking  groan  of  anxiety,  for  Selamlik 
Pasha  would  not  spare  the  invader  of  his  ha- 
rem ;  an  English  invader  would  be  a  delicate 
morsel  for  his  pitiless  soul.  He  shuddered  in- 
wardly at  the  thought  of  what  might  have  oc- 
curred, what  might  occur  still. 

If  Sowerby  had  been  trapped  and  was 
already  dead,  the  knowledge  would  creep 
through  the  bazaars  like  a  soft  wind  of  the 
night,  and  all  the  Arab  world  would  rejoice 
that  a  cursed  Inglesi,  making  the  unpardon- 
able breach  of  their  code,  had  been  given  to 
the  crocodiles,  been  smothered,  or  stabbed,  or 
tortured  to  death  with  fire.  And,  if  it  were  so, 
what  could  be  done  ?  Could  England  make  a 
case  of  it,  avenge  the  life  of  this  young  fool 
who  had  disgraced  her  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  of  the  envious  French  in  Cairo,  and  of 
that  population  of  the  palaces  who  hated  her 
because  Englishmen  were  the  enemies  of 
backsheesh,  corruption,  tyranny,  and  slavery  ? 
And  to  what  good  the  attempt  ?  Exists  the 
personal  law  of  the  Oriental  palace,  and  who 
may  punish  any  there  save  by  tliat  personal 

137 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

law?  What  outside  law  shall  apply  to  any- 
thing that  happens  within  those  mysterious 
walls  ?  Who  shall  bear  true  witness,  wlien  the 
only  judge  is  he  whose  palace  it  is?  Though 
twenty  nations  should  unite  to  judge,  where 
might  proof  be  found  ?^ — Inside  the  palace, 
where  all  men  lie  and  bear  false  Avitness  ? 

If  Sowerby  was  not  dead,  tlien  resort  to 
force  ?  Go  to  Selamlik  Pasha  the  malignant, 
and  demand  the  young  officer?  How  easy 
for  Selamlik  Pasha  to  deny  all  knowledge  of 
his  existence  !  Threaten  Selamlik — and  raise  a 
JNIahommedan  crusade  ?     That  would  not  do. 

Say  nought,  then,  and  let  Sowerby,  who 
had  thrust  his  head  into  the  jaws  of  the  tiger, 
get  it  out  as  best  he  might,  or  not  get  it  out, 
as  the  case  might  be? 

Neither  was  that  possible  to  Dicky  Dono- 
van, even  if  it  were  the  more  politic  thing  to 
do,  even  if  it  were  better  for  England's  name. 
Sowerby  was  his  friend,  as  men  of  the  same 
race  are  friends  together  in  a  foreign  country. 
Dicky  had  a  poor  opinion  of  Sowerby 's  sense 
or  ability,  and  yet  he  knew  that  if  he  were  in 
Sowerby 's  present  situation — living  or  dead — 
Sowerby  would  spill  his  blood  a  hundred  use- 
less times,  if  need  be,  to  save  him. 

He  had  no  idea  of  leaving  Sowerby  where 
he  was,  if  alive ;  or  of  not  avenging  him  one 

138 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

way  or  another  if  dead.  But  how  that  might 
be  he  was  not  on  the  instant  sure.  He  had 
been  struck  as  with  a  sudden  bhndness  by  the 
news,  though  he  showed  nothing  of  this  to 
Mahommed  Yeleb.  His  chief  object  was  to 
inspire  the  Arab  with  confidence,  since  he  was 
probably  the  only  man  outside  Selamlik's  pal- 
ace who  knew  the  thing  as  yet.  It  was  likely 
that  Selamlik  Pasha  would  be  secret  till  he 
saw  whether  Sowerby  would  be  missed  and 
what  inquiry  was  made  for  him.  It  was  im- 
portant to  Dicky,  in  the  first  place,  that  this 
JVIahommed  Yeleb  be  kept  quiet,  by  being 
made  a  confidant  of  his  purposes  so  far  as 
need  be,  an  accomplice  in  his  efforts  whatever 
they  should  be.  Kept  busy,  with  a  promise 
of  success  and  backsheesh  when  the  matter 
was  completed,  the  Arab  would  probably  re- 
main secret.  Besides,  as  Dicky  said  to  him- 
self, while  INIahommed  kept  his  head,  he  would 
not  risk  parading  himself  as  the  servant  of  the 
infidel  who  had  invaded  the  Pasha's  harem. 
Again,  it  was  certain  that  he  had  an  adequate 
devotion  to  his  master,  who  had  given  him  as 
many  ha'pence  as  kicks,  and  many  cast-off 
underclothes  and  cigarettes. 

Thus  it  was  that  before  Dicky  had  arranged 
what  he  should  do,  though  plans  were  fusing 
in  his  brain,  he  said  to  ^Mahommed  Yeleb  seri- 

139 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

ously,  as  befitting  the  crime  Sowerby  had  com- 
mitted— evenly,  as  befitted  the  influence  he 
wished  to  have  over  the  Arab :  "  Keep  your 
tongue  between  your  teeth,  Mahommed.  AVe 
will  pull  him  through  all  right." 

"But,  efFendi,  whom  God  honour,  for  great- 
ness is  in  all  thy  ways,  friend  of  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful  as  thou  art — but, 
saadat  el  basha,  if  he  be  dead  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  dead.  I  know  it  by  the  eyes  of 
my  mind,  Mahommed — yea,  by  the  hairs  of 
my  head,  he  is  not  dead  !  " 

"  Saadat  el  basha,  thou  art  known  as  the 
truth-teller  and  the  incorruptible — this  is  the 
word  of  the  Egyptian  and  of  the  infidel  con- 
cerning thee.  I  kiss  thy  feet.  For  it  is  true 
he  hath  deserved  death,  but  woe  be  to  him 
by  whom  his  death  cometh  !  And  am  I  not 
his  servant  to  be  with  him  while  he  hath  life, 
and  hath  need  of  me?  If  thou  sayest  he  is 
alive,  then  is  he  alive,  and  my  heart  rejoices." 

Dicky  scarcely  heard  what  the  Arab  said, 
for  the  quick  conviction  he  had  had  that 
Sowerby  was  alive  was  based  on  the  fact, 
suddenly  remembered,  that  Selamlik  Pasha 
had  only  returned  from  the  Fayoum  this  very 
morning,  and  that  therefore  he  could  not  as 
yet  have  had  any  share  in  the  fate  of  Sowerby, 
but  had  probably  been  sent  for  by  the  Chief 

140 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

Eunuch.  It  was  but  an  hour  since  that  he 
had  seen  SelamUk  Pasha  driving  hastily  towards 
his  palace. 

His  mind  was  instantly  made  up,  his  plans 
formed  to  his  purpose. 

"  Listen,  Mahommed,"  he  said  to  the  Arab. 
"  Listen  to  each  word  I  say,  as  though  it  were 
the  prayer  to  take  thee  into  Paradise.  Go  at 
once  to  Selamlik  Pasha.  Carry  this  ring  the 
Khedive  gave  to  me — he  will  know  it.  Do 
not  be  denied  his  presence.  Say  that  it  is 
more  than  life  and  death;  that  it  is  all  he 
values  in  the  world.  Once  admitted,  say 
these  words — '  Donovan  Pasha  knows  all,  and 
asks  an  audience  at  midnight  in  this  palace. 
Until  that  hour  Donovan  Pasha  desires  peace. 
For  is  it  7iot  the  law,  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth  ?  Is  not  a  market  a  place  to 
buy  and  sell? ' " 

Four  times  did  Dicky  make  the  Arab  re- 
peat the  words  after  him,  till  they  ran  like 
water  from  his  tongue,  and  dismissed  him 
upon  the  secret  errand  with  a  handful  of 
silver. 

Immediately  the  Arab  had  gone,  Dicky's 
face  flushed  with  excitement,  in  the  reaction 
from  his  lately  assumed  composure.  For  five 
minutes  he  walked  up  and  down,  using  lan- 
guage  scarcely   printable,    reviling    Sowerby, 

141 


^. 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

and  setting  his  teeth  in  anger.  But  he  sud- 
denly composed  himself,  and,  sitting  down, 
stared  straight  before  him  for  a  long  time 
■without  stirring  a  muscle.  There  was  urgent 
need  of  action,  but  there  was  more  urgent 
need  of  his  making  no  mistake,  of  his  doing 
the  one  thing  necessary,  for  Sowerby  could 
only  be  saved  in  one  way,  not  many. 

It  was  useless  to  ask  the  Khedive's  inter- 
vention— Isma,il  dared  not  go  against  Selamlik 
in  this.  Whatever  was  done  must  be  done 
between  Selamlik  Pasha  the  tigerish  libertine 
and  Richard  Donovan,  the  little  man  who,  at 
tlie  tail  end  of  Ismail's  reign,  was  helping  him 
hold  things  together  against  the  black  day  of 
reckoning,  "  prepared  for  the  devil  and  all  his 
angels,"  as  Dicky  had  said  to  Ismail  on  this 
very  momentous  morning,  when  warning  him 
of  the  perils  in  his  path.  Now  Dicky  had 
been  at  war  with  Selamlik  ever  since,  one  day 
long  ago  on  the  Nile,  he  and  Fielding  had 
tliwarted  his  purposes ;  and  Dicky  had  earned 
the  Pasha's  changeless  hatred  by  calling  him 
"Trousers" — for  tliis  name  had  gone  up  and 
down  throughout  Egypt  as  a  doubtful  story 
travels,  drawing  easy  credit  everywhere.  Those 
were  the  days  when  Dicky  was  irresponsible. 
Of  all  in  Egypt  wlio  hated  liim  most,  Selam- 
lik  l*asha  was  the  chief.      But  most  people 

142 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

hated  Selamlik,  so  the  world  was  not  con- 
founded by  the  great  man's  rage,  nor  did  they 
dishke  Dicky  simply  because  the  Pasha  chose 
to  do  so.  Through  years  Selamlik  had  built 
up  his  power,  until  even  the  Khedive  feared 
him,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  tie  a  stone 
round  his  neck  and  drop  him  into  the  Nile. 
But  Ismail  could  no  longer  do  this  sort  of 
thing  without  some  show  of  reason:  Europe 
was  hanging  on  his  actions,  waiting  for  the 
apt  moment  to  depose  him. 

All  this  Dicky  knew,  and  five  minutes  from 
the  time  JNIahommed  Yeleb  had  left  him  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Ismail's  palace,  with  his 
kavass  behind  him,  cool  and  ruminating  as 
usual,  now  answering  a  salute  in  Turkish  fash- 
ion, now  in  English,  as  Egyptians  or  Euro- 
peans passed  him. 

II 

There  was  one  being  in  the  Khedive's  pal- 
ace whose  admiration  for  Dicky  was  a  kind 
of  fetish,  and  Dicky  loathed  him.  Twice  had 
Dicky  saved  this  Chief  Eunuch's  life  from  Is- 
mail's anger,  and  once  had  he  saved  his  fort- 
une— not  even  from  compassion,  but  out  of 
his  inherent  love  of  justice.  As  Dicky  had 
said :  "  Let  him  die  for  what  he  has  done,  not 

143 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

for  something  he  has  not  done.  Send  him  to 
the  devil  with  a  true  bill  of  crime." 

So  it  was  that  Dicky,  who  shrank  from  the 
creature  whom  Ministers  and  Pashas  fawned 
upon — so  powerful  was  his  unique  position  in 
the  palace — went  straight  to  him  now  to  get 
his  qiiid-pro-quo,  his  measure  for  measure. 

The  tall,  black-coated,  smooth-faced  creat- 
ure, silent  and  watchful  and  lean,  stepped 
through  the  doorway  with  the  footfall  of  a 
cat.  He  slid  forward,  salaamed  to  the  floor — 
Dicky  wondered  how  a  body  could  open  and 
shut  so  like  the  blade  of  a  knife — and,  catch- 
ing Dicky's  hand,  kissed  it. 

"  May  thy  days  be  watered  with  the  dew  of 
heaven,  saadat  el  basha,"  said  the  Chief 
Eunuch. 

"  Mine  eyes  have  not  seen  since  thy  last  with- 
drawal," answered  Dicky  blandly,  in  the  high- 
flown  Oriental  way. 

"  Thou  hast  sent  for  me.     I  am  thy  slave." 

*'  I  have  sent  for  thee,  Mizraim.  And  thou 
shalt  prove  thyself,  once  for  all,  whetlier  thy 
liand  moves  as  thy  tongue  speaks." 

"  To  serve  thee  I  will  lay  down  my  life — I 
will  blow  it  from  me  as  the  wind  bloweth  the 
cotton  flower.  Have  I  not  spoken  thus  since 
the  Feast  of  Beiram,  now  two  years  gone  ? " 

Dicky  lowered  his  voice.  "  Doth  Mustapha 
144 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

Bey,  that  son  of  the  he- wolf  Selamhk  Pasha, 
still  follow  the  carriage  of  the  Khedive's  fa- 
vourite, and  hang  about  the  walls,  and  seek 
to  corrupt  thee  with  gold,  Mohammed  Miz- 
rann  i 

"  Saadat  el  basha,  but  for  thy  word  to  wait, 
the  Khedive  had  been  told  long  since." 

"  It  is  the  sport  to  strike  when  the  sword 
cuts  with  the  longest  arm,  O  son  of  Egypt !  " 

The  face  of  Mizraim  was  ugly  with  the  un- 
natural cruelty  of  an  unnatural  man.  "  Is  the 
time  at  hand,  saadat  el  basha? " 

"  You  hate  Selamlik  Pasha?  " 

"  As  the  Hon  the  jackal." 

Dicky  would  have  laughed  in  scorn  if  he 
might  have  dared — this  being  to  class  himself 
with  lions !  But  the  time  was  not  fit  for 
laughter !  "  And  the  son  of  Selamlik  Pasha, 
the  vile  Mustapha  Bey? "  he  asked. 

"  I  would  grind  him  like  corn  between  the 
stones!  Hath  he  not  sent  messages  by  the 
women  of  the  bazaar  to  the  harem  of  my 
royal  master,  to  whom  God  give  glory  in 
heaven?  Hath  he  not  sought  to  enter  the 
harem  as  a  weazel  crawls  under  a  wall? 
Hath  he  not  sought  to  steal  what  I  hoard  by 
a  mighty  hand  and  the  eye  of  an  eagle  for  Is- 
mail the  Great  ?  Shall  I  love  him  more  than 
the  dog  that  tears  the  throat  of  a  gazelle  ? " 

145 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

The  gesture  of  cruelty  he  made  was  disgust- 
ing to  the  eyes  of  Dicky  Donovan,  but  he  had 
in  his  mind  the  peril  to  Sowerby,  and  he  nod- 
ded his  head  in  careless  approval,  as  it  were. 

"  Then,  JNIizraim,  thou  son  of  secrecy  and 
keeper  of  the  door,  take  heed  to  what  I  say, 
and  for  thine  honour  and  my  need  do  as  I  will. 
Thou  shalt  to-night  admit  Mustapha  Bey  to 
the  harem — at  the  hour  of  nine  o'clock  ! " 

*'  Saadat  el  basha !  "  The  Eunuch's  face 
was  sickly  in  its  terrified  wonder. 

"  Even  so.     At  nine." 

"  But,  saadat " 

"  Bring  him  secretly,  even  to  the  door  of  the 
favourite's  room;  then,  have  him  seized  and 
carried  to  a  safe  place  till  I  send  for  him." 

"  Ah,  saadat  el  basha "     The  lean  face 

of  the  creature  smiled,  and  the  smile  was  not 
nice  to  see. 

"  Let  no  harm  be  done  him,  but  await  my 
messenger,  Mahommed  Yeleb,  and  whatsoever 
he  bids  you  to  do,  do  it;  for  I  speak." 

"  Ah,  saadat  el  basha,  you  would  strike 
Selamlik  Pasha  so — the  great  beast,  the  black 
river   pig,  the   serpent   of  the    shme  .  .  .  !" 

*'  You  will  do  this  thing,  IMizraim  ?  " 

"  I  shall  lure  him  as  the  mirage  the  pilgrim. 
With  joy  I  will  do  this,  and  a  hundred  times 
more." 

146 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

"  Even  if  I  asked  of  thee  the  keys  of  the 
harem? "  said  Dicky  grimly. 

"  Effendi,  thou  wouldst  not  ask.  All  the 
world  knows  thee.  For  thee  the  harem  hath 
no  lure.  Thou  goest  not  by  dark  Avays  to 
deeds  for  thine  own  self.  Thou  hast  honour. 
Ismail  himself  would  not  fear  thee." 

"  See,  thou  master  of  many,  squeak  not  thy 
voice  so  high.  Ismail  will  take  thy  head  and 
mine,  if  he  discovers  to-night's  business.  Go 
then  with  a  soft  tread,  INIizraim.  I^et  thy 
hand  be  quick  on  his  mouth,  and  beware  that 
no  one  sees ! 


I  " 


III 


Upon  the  stroke  of  midnight  Dicky  entered 
the  room  where  Selamlik  Pasha  awaited  him 
with  a  mahcious  and  gi'easy  smile,  in  which 
wanton  cruelty  was  uppermost.  Selamlik 
Pasha  knew  well  the  object  of  this  meeting. 
He  had  accurately  interpreted  the  message 
brought  by  INIahommed  Yeleb.  He  knew  his 
power;  he  knew  that  the  Enghshman's  life 
was  in  his  hands  to  do  with  it  what  he  chose,  for 
the  law  of  the  harem  which  defies  all  outside 
law  was  on  his  side.  But  here  he  was  come 
to  listen  to  Dicky  Donovan,  the  arrogant  lit- 
tle favourite,  pleading  for  the  life  of  the  Eng- 

14^7 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

lish  boy  who  had  done  the  thing  for  which  the 
only  penalty  was  death. 

Dicky  showed  no  emotion  as  he  entered  the 
room,  but  salaamed,  and  said :  "  Your  excel- 
lency is  prompt.  Honour  and  peace  be  upon 
your  excellency ! " 

*'  Honour  and  the  boimty  of  the  stars  be 
upon  thee,  saadat  el  basha  ! " 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  in  which  Dicky 
seated  himself,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  sum- 
moned a  servant,  of  whom  he  ordered  coffee. 
They  did  not  speak  meantime,  but  Dicky  sat 
calmly,  almost  drowsily,  smoking,  and  Selam- 
lik  Pasha  sat  with  greasy  hands  clasping  and 
unclasping,  his  yellow  eyes  fixed  on  Dicky 
with  malevolent  scrutiny. 

When  the  coffee  was  brought,  the  door  had 
been  shut,  and  Dicky  had  drawn  the  curtain 
across,  Selamlik  Pasha  said ;  "  What  great  af- 
fair brings  us  together  here,  saadat  el  basha  ? " 

"  The  matter  of  the  Enghshman  you  hold  a 
prisoner,  excellency." 

"  It  is  painful,  but  he  is  dead,"  said  the 
Pasha,  with  a  gi'imace  of  cruelty. 

Dicky's  eyes  twitched  slightly,  but  he  an- 
swered with  coolness,  thrusting  his  elbow  into 
the  cushions  and  smoking  liard  :  "  But,  no,  he 
is  not  dead.  Selamlik  l*asha  has  as  gi'cat  an 
instinct  for  a  bargain  as  for  revenge.     Also 

148 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

Selamlik  Pasha  would  torture  before  he  kills. 
Is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  What  is  your  wish  ? " 

"  That  the  man  be  set  fi'ee,  excellency." 

"  He  has  trespassed.  He  has  stolen  his  way 
into  the  harem.  The  infidel  dog  has  defiled 
the  house  of  my  wives." 

"  He  will  marry  the  woman,  with  your  per- 
mission, excellency.  He  loved  her — so  it 
would  seem." 

"  He  shall  die— the  dog  of  an  infidel ! " 

Dicky  was  now  satisfied  that  Sowerby  was 
alive,  and  that  the  game  was  fairly  begun.  He 
moved  slowly  towards  his  purpose, 

"  I  ask  his  life,  as  a  favour  to  me.  The 
Khedive  honours  me,  and  I  can  serve  you 
betimes,  excellency." 

"  You  called  me  '  Trousers,'  and  all  Egypt 
laughed,"  answered  the  Pasha  malignantly. 

"  I  might  have  called  you  worse,  but  I  did 
not.  You  may  call  me  what  you  will — I  will 
laugh." 

"  I  will  call  you  a  fool  for  bringing  me  here 
to  laugh  at  you,  who  now  would  kiss  Selamlik 
Pasha's  shoe.  I  would  he  were  yoin*  brother, 
I  would  tear  out  his  finger-nails,  pierce  his 
eyes,  burn  him  with  hot  irons,  pour  boiling  oil 
over  him  and  red  cinders  down  his  throat — if 
he  were  your  brother." 

11  149 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

"  Remember  I  am  in  the  confidence  of  the 
Khedive,  pasha." 

"  Ismail !  AVhat  dare  he  do  ?  Every  Egyp- 
tian in  the  hmd  would  call  him  infidel.  Ismail 
would  dare  do  nothing."  His  voice  was  angrily 
guttural  with  triumph. 

"  England  will  ask  the  price  of  the  young 
man's  life  of  you,  excellency." 

*'  England  dare  not  move :  is  thy  servant  a 
fool?  Every  Mussulman  in  the  land  would 
raise  the  green  flag — the  Jehad  would  be  upon 

ye!" 

*'  He  is  so  young.  He  meant  no  ill.  The 
face  of  your  daughter  drew  him  on.  He  did 
not  realise  his  crime— nor  its  penalty." 

"  It  is  a  fool's  reasoning.  ]5ecause  he  was  a 
stranger  and  an  infidel,  so  has  he  been  told  of 
dark  things  done  to  those  who  desecrate  our 
faith." 

*'  Had  he  been  an  Egyptian  or  a  Turk " 

*'  I  should  slay  him,  were  he  Ismail  himself. 
Mine  own  is  mine  own,  as  INIahomct  hath  said. 
The  man  shall  die — and  who  shall  save  him  ? 
Not  even  the  Sultan  himself." 

"  There  are  concessions  in  the  Fayoum;  you 
have  sought  them  long." 

"Bah!" 

"  There  is  the  Cirand  Cordon  of  the  Mejid- 
ieh;  there  is  a  way  to  it,  excellency." 

150 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

"  The  man's  blood  ! " 

"  There  is  a  high  office  to  be  vacant  soon, 
near  to  the  person  of  the  Khedive,  with  divers 
moneys  and  loans " 

*'  To  see  Donovan  Pasha  cringe  and  beg  is 
better." 

"  There  is  that  mercy  which  one  day  you 
may  have  to  ask  for  yourself  or  for  your 
own " 

"The  fool  shall  die.  And  who  shall  save 
him?" 

"  Well,  I  will  save  him,"  said  Dicky,  rising 
slowly  to  his  feet. 

*'  Pish  !  Go  to  the  Khedive  with  the  tale, 
and  I  will  kill  the  man  within  the  hour,  and 
tell  it  abroad,  and  we  shall  see  where  Donovan 
Pasha  will  stand  to-morrow.  The  Khedive  is 
not  stronger  than  his  people — and  there  are 
the  French,  and  others  ! "  He  spat  upon  the 
floor  at  Dicky's  feet.  "  Go,  tell  the  Khedive 
what  you  will,  dog  of  an  Englishman,  son  of  a 
dog  with  a  dog's  heart ! " 

Dicky  took  a  step  forward,  with  an  ominous 
flare  of  colour  in  his  cheek.  There  was  a 
table  between  him  and  Selamlik  Pasha.  He 
put  both  hands  upon  it,  and  leaning  over  said 
in  a  voice  of  steel : 

"  So  be  it,  then.  Shall  I  go  to  the  Khedive 
and  say  that  this  night  JMustapha  Bey,  eldest 

151 

Tl^  rT(^>T>fi  *  ?■  or*?-"- 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

and  chosen  son  of  Selamlik  Pasha,  the  dar- 
ling of  his  fat  heart,  was  seized  by  the  Chief 
Eunuch,  the  gentle  Mizraim,  in  the  harem  of 
His  Highness  ?  Shall  I  tell  him  that,  Trou- 
sers J  " 

As  Dicky  spoke,  slowly,  calmly,  Selamlik 
Pasha  turned  a  greenish-yellow,  his  eyes  started 
from  his  head,  his  hand  chafed  the  air. 

"  Mustapha  Bey — Khedive's  harem  !  "  he 
stammered  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  By  the  gentle  Mizraim,  I  said,"  answered 
Dicky.  "  Is  Mustapha  Bey's  life  worth  an 
hour's  purchase  ?     Is  Selamlik  Pasha  safe  ? " 

"  Is — is  he  dead  ?  "  gasped  the  cowardly 
Egyptian,  furtively  glancing  towards  the  door. 
Suddenly  he  fell  back  fainting,  and  Dicky 
threw  some  water  in  his  face,  then  set  a  cup  of 
it  beside  him. 

"  Drink,  and  pull  yourself  together,  if  you 
would  save  yourself,"  said  Dicky. 

*'  Save — save  myself,"  said  Selamlik  Pasha, 
recovering ;  then,  with  quick  suspicion,  and  to 
gain  time,  added  quickly,  "  Ah,  it  is  a  trick  1 
He  is  not  a  prisoner — you  lie  !  " 

•'  I  have  not  a  reputation  for  lying,"  rejoined 
Dicky  quietly.  *'  But  see  !  "  he  added  ;  and 
throwing  open  a  door,  pointed  to  where  the 
Chief  Eunuch  stood  with  INIahonnncd  Yeleb, 
Mustapha   Bey  gagged  and   bound   between 

152 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

them.  Dicky  shut  the  door  again,  as  Selam- 
lik  Pasha  shrank  back  among  the  cushions, 
cowardice  incarnate. 

"You  thought,"  said  Dicky  with  a  soft 
fierceness,  "you  thought  that  I  would  stoop 
to  bargain  with  Selamhk  Pasha  and  not  know 
my  way  out  of  the  bargain  ?  You  thought  an 
Enghshman  would  beg,  even  for  a  life,  of  such 
as  you !  You  thought  me,  Donovan  Pasha, 
such  a  fool ! " 

"  Mercy,  excellency  !  "  said  Selamlik,  spread- 
ing out  his  hands. 

Dicky  laughed.  "You  called  me  names, 
Selamlik — a  dog,  and  the  son  of  a  dog  with  a 
dog's  heart.     Was  it  wise  ?  " 

"Is  there  no  way  ?  Can  no  bargain  be 
made  ? " 

Dicky  sat  down,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"  To  save  a  scandal  in  Egypt,"  answered 
Dicky  drily, ' '  I  am  ready  to  grant  you  terms." 

"  Speak — excellency." 

"  The  life  of  the  Englishman  for  the  life  of 
your  son  and  your  own.  Also,  the  freedom  of 
the  six  Circassian  slaves  whom  you  house  now 
at  Beni  Hassan,  ready  to  bring  to  your  palace. 
Also,  for  these  slaves  two  hundred  Turkish 
pounds  apiece.  Also,  your  written  word  that 
you  will  bring  no  more  slaves  into  Egypt.  Is 
the  bargain  fair  ? " 

153 


A   TREATY   OF   PEACE 

"  Mizraim  may  still  betray  us,"  said  Selam- 
lik,  trembling,  with  relief,  but  yet  apprehen- 
sive. 

"  Mizraim  is  in  my  power — he  acts  for  me," 
said  Dicky.  "  AVhose  life  is  safe  here  save  my 
own  i 

"  Malalsh  I  It  shall  be  as  your  will  is,  excel- 
lency," answered  Selamlik  Pasha,  in  a  shaking 
voice ;  and  he  had  time  to  wonder  even  then 
how  an  Englishman  could  so  outwit  an  Ori- 
ental. It  was  no  matter  how  INIustapha  Bey, 
his  son,  was  lured  ;  he  had  been  seized  in  the 
harem,  and  all  truth  can  be  forsworn  in  Egypt, 
and  the  game  was  with  this  Donovan  Pasha. 

"  Send  to  your  palace,  commanding  that 
the  Englishman  be  brought  here,"  said  Dicky. 
Selamlik  Pasha  did  so. 

Sowerby  of  the  Mounted  Infantry  was  freed 
that  night,  and  the  next  day  Dicky  Donovan 
had  six  Circassian  slaves  upon  his  hands.  He 
passed  them  over  to  the  wife  of  Fielding  Bey 
with  whom  he  had  shared  past  secrets  and  past 
dangers. 

Selamlik  Pasha  held  his  peace  in  fear ;  and 
the  Khedive  and  Cairo  never  knew  why  there 
was  a  truce  to  battle  between  Dicky  Donovan 
and  that  vile  I'asha  called  Trousers. 


154 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 


'N  a  certain  year  when  Dicky 
Donovan  was  the  one  being 
in  Egypt  who  had  any  re- 
straining influence   on   the 
Khedive,  he  suddenly  asked 
leave   of   absence    to    visit 
England.    Ismail  granted  it 
with  reluctance,  chiefly  be- 
cause he  disliked  any  inter- 
,^,^y-^'^"    ference  with    his   comforts, 
and  Dicky  was  one  of  them— in  some  respects 
the  most  important. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said  half  petulantly  to 
Dicky,  as  he  tossed  the  plans  for  a  new  palace 
to  his  secretary  and  dismissed  him,  "  are  you 
not  happy  here  ?  Have  you  not  all  a  prince 
can  give  ? " 

"  Highness,"  answered  Dicky,  "  I  have  kith 
and  kin  in  England.  Shall  a  man  forget  his 
native  land  ? " 

The  Khedive  yawned,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  murmured  through  the  smoke :  "  Inshal- 
lah  !     It  might  be  pleasant — betimes." 

155 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

"  I  have  your  Highness'  leave  to  go  ? " 
asked  Dicky. 

"  JNIay  God  preserve  your  head  from  harm!" 
answered  Ismail  in  farewell  salutation,  and, 
taking  a  ring  from  his  finger  set  with  a  large 
emerald,  he  gave  it  to  Dicky.  "  Gold  is  scarce 
in  Egypt,"  he  went  on,  "but  there  are  jewels 
still  in  the  palace — and  the  Khedive's  promises- 
to-pay  with  every  money-barber  of  Europe  !" 
he  added,  with  a  cynical  sneer,  and  touched 
his  forehead  and  his  breast  courteously  as 
Dicky  retired. 

Outside  the  presence  Dicky  unbuttoned  his 
coat  like  an  Englishman  again,  and  ten  min- 
utes later  flung  his  tarboosh  into  a  corner  of 
the  room ;  for  the  tarboosh  was  the  sign  of  offi- 
cial servitude,  and  Dicky  was  never  the  per- 
fect official.  Initiative  was  his  strong  point, 
independence  his  life ;  he  loathed  the  machine 
of  system  in  so  far  as  he  could  not  command 
it;  he  revolted  at  being  a  cog  in  the  wheel. 
Ismail  had  discovered  this,  and  Dicky  had 
been  made  a  kind  of  confidential  secretary  who 
seldom  wrote  a  line.  By  his  influence  with 
Ismail  lie  had  even  more  power  at  last  than 
the  chief  eunuch  or  the  valct-dc-chamhrc^  be- 
fore whom  the  highest  officials  bowed  low.  He 
was  hated  profoundly  by  many  of  the  house- 
hold, cultivated  by  certain  of  the  Ministers, 

156 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

fawned  upon  by  outsiders,  trusted  by  the 
Khedive,  and  entirely  beheved  in  by  the  few 
EngUshmen  and  Frenchmen  who  worked  for 
decent  administration  faithfully,  but  without 
hope  and  sometimes  with  nausea. 

It  was  nausea  that  had  seized  upon  Dicky 
at  last,  nausea  and  one  other  thing  :  the  spirit 
of  adventure,  an  inveterate  curiosity.  His 
was  the  instinct  of  the  explorer,  his  feet  were 
the  feet  of  the  AVandering  Jew.  He  knew 
things  behind  closed  doors  by  instinct ;  he  was 
like  a  thought-reader  in  the  sure  touch  of  dis- 
covery ;  the  Khedive  looked  upon  him  as  oc- 
cult almost,  and  laughed  in  the  face  of  the 
Mouffetish  Sadik  when  he  said  some  evil  things 
of  Dicky.  Also,  the  Khedive  told  the  Mouf- 
fetish that  if  any  harm  came  to  Dicky  there 
would  come  harm  to  him.  The  Khedive  loved 
to  play  one  man  off  against  another,  and  the 
death  of  Sadik  or  the  death  of  Dicky  would 
have  given  him  no  pain,  if  either  seemed  nec- 
essary. For  the  moment,  however,  he  loved 
them  both  after  his  fashion :  for  Sadik  lied  to 
him,  and  squeezed  the  land  dry,  and  flailed  it 
with  kourbashes  for  gold  for  his  august  master 
and  himself;  and  Dicky  told  him  the  trutli 
about  everything — which  gave  the  Khedive 
knowledge  of  how  he  really  stood  all  round. 

Dicky  told  the  great  spendthrift  the  truth 
157 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

about  himself;  but  he  did  not  tell  the  truth 
when  he  said  he  was  going  to  England  on  a 
visit  to  his  kith  and  kin.  Seized  by  the  most 
irresistible  curiosity  of  his  life,  moved  by  a  de- 
sire for  knowledge,  that  a  certain  plan  in  his 
mind  might  be  successfully  advanced  he  went 
south  and  east,  not  west  and  north. 

For  four  months  Egypt  knew  him  not. 
For  four  months  the  Khedive  was  never  told 
the  truth  save  by  European  financiers,  when 
truths  were  obvious  facts ;  for  four  long  months 
he  never  saw  a  fearless  or  an  honest  eye  in  his 
own  household.  Not  that  it  mattered  in  one 
sense  ;  but  Ismail  was  a  man  of  ideas,  a  sports- 
man of  a  sort,  an  Iniquity  with  points ;  a  man 
who  chose  the  broad  way  because  it  was  easier, 
not  because  he  was  remorseless.  At  the  start 
he  meant  well  by  his  people,  but  he  meant 
better  by  himself;  and  not  being  able  to  sat- 
isfy both  sides  of  the  equation,  he  satisfied 
one  at  the  expense  of  the  other  and  of  that  x 
quantity  otherwise  known  as  Europe.  And 
Europe  was  heckling  him ;  the  settling  of  ac- 
counts was  near.  Commissioners  had  been 
sent  to  find  wliere  were  the  ninety  millions  he 
had  borrowed.  Only  Ismail  and  Sadik  the 
Mouffetisli,  once  slave  and  foster-brother,  could 
reply.  Tlie  Khedive  could  not  long  stave  off 
the  evil  day  when  he  nuist  "  pay  the  debt  of 

158 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

the  lobster,"  and  Sadik  give  account  of  his 
stewardship.  JNIeanwhile,  his  mind  turned  to 
the  resourceful  little  Englishman  with  the  face 
of  a  girl  and  the  tongue  of  an  honest  man. 

But  the  day  Dicky  had  set  for  his  return 
had  come  and  gone,  and  Dicky  himself  had 
not  appeared.  With  a  grim  sort  of  satisfac- 
tion, harmonious  with  his  irritation,  Ismail 
w^ent  forth  with  his  retinue  to  the  Dosah^  the 
gruesome  celebration  of  the  Prophet's  birth- 
day, following  on  the  return  of  the  pilgrimage 
from  JMecca.  At  noon  he  entered  his  splendid 
tent  at  one  side  of  a  square  made  of  splendid 
tents,  and  looked  out  listlessly,  yet  sourly,  upon 
the  vast  crowds  assembled — upon  the  lines  of 
banners,  the  red  and  gi'een  pennons  embroid- 
ered with  phrases  from  the  Koran.  His  half- 
shut,  stormy  eyes  fell  upon  the  tent  of  the 
chief  of  the  dervishes,  and  he  scarcely  checked 
a  sneer,  for  the  ceremony  to  be  performed  ap- 
pealed to  nothing  in  him  save  a  barbaric  in- 
stinct, and  this  barbaric  instinct  had  been 
veneered  by  Frencli  civilisation  and  pierced 
by  the  criticism  of  one  honest  man.  His  look 
fell  upon  the  long  pathway  whereon,  for  three 
hundred  yards,  matting  had  been  spread.  A 
field  of  the  cloth  of  blood ;  for  on  this  cloth 
dervishes  back  from  Mecca,  mad  with  fanat- 
icism and  hashish,  vv^ould  lie  packed  like  her- 

159 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

rings,  while  the  Sheikh  of  the  Dosah  rode  his 
horse  over  their  bodies,  a  pavement  of  human 
flesh  and  bone. 

As  the  Khedive  looked,  his  lip  curled  a  lit- 
^^le,  for  he  recalled  what  Dicky  Donovan  had 
said  about  it  ;  how  he  had  pleaded  against  it, 
describing  sickening  wounds  and  pilgi*ims  done 
to  death.  Dicky  had  ended  his  brief  homily 
by  saying — "  And  isn't  that  a  pretty  dish  to 
set  before  a  king  ! "  To  Ismail's  amusement ; 
for  he  was  no  good  INIussulman,  no  JNlussul- 
man  at  all,  in  fact,  save  in  occasional  violent 
prejudices  got  of  inheritance  and  association. 

To-day,  liowever,  Ismail  was  in  a  bad  hu- 
mour with  Dicky  and  with  the  world.  He  had 
that  very  morning  flogged  a  soldier  senseless 
with  his  own  hand ;  he  had  handed  over  liis 
favourite  Circassian  slave  to  a  ruflian  Bey,  who 
would  drown  her  or  sell  her  witliin  a  month; 
and  he  liad  dishonoured  his  own  note  of  hand 
for  fifty  thousand  pounds  to  a  great  mercliant 
who  had  served  him  not  wisely  but  too  well. 
He  was  not  taking  his  troubles  quietly,  and 
woe  be  to  the  man  or  woman  wlio  crossed  him 
this  day  !  Tiberius  was  an  hungered  for  a 
victim  to  his  temper.  His  entourage  knew  it 
well,  and  many  a  man  trembled  that  day  for 
his  place,  or  his  head,  or  his  home.  Even 
Sadik  Pasha  the  IMouflctish— Sadik,  who  had 

160 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

four  hundred  women  slaves  dressed  in  purple 
and  fine  linen — Sadik,  whose  kitchen  alone 
cost  him  sixty  thousand  pounds  a  year,  the 
price  of  whose  cigarette  ash-trays  was  equal 
to  the  salary  of  an  English  consul  —  even 
Sadik,  foster-brother,  panderer,  the  Barabbas 
of  his  master,  was  silent  and  watchful  to-day. 

And  Sadik,  silent  and  watchful  and  fearful, 
was  also  a  dangerous  man.  As  Sadik's  look 
wandered  over  the  packed  crowds,  his  faded 
eyes  scarce  realising  the  bright-coloured  gar- 
ments of  the  men,  the  crimson  silk  tents  and 
banners  and  pennons,  the  gorgeous  canopies 
and  trappings  and  plumes  of  the  approaching 
dervishes,  led  by  the  Amir-el-Haj  or  Prince  of 
the  Pilgrims,  returned  from  Mecca,  he  won- 
dered what  lamb  for  the  sacrifice  might  be 
provided  to  soothe  the  mind  of  his  master. 
He  looked  at  the  matting  in  the  long  lane 
before  them,  and  he  knew  that  the  bodies 
which  would  lie  here  presently,  yielding  to  the 
hoofs  of  the  Sheikh's  horse,  were  not  sufficient 
to  appease  the  rabid  spirit  tearing  at  the  Khe- 
dive's soul.  He  himself  had  been  flouted  by 
one  ugly  look  this  morning,  and  one  from  Is- 
mail was  enough. 

It  did  his  own  soul  good  now  to  see  the 
dervish  fanatics  foaming  at  the  mouth,  their 
eyes   rolling,  as   they    crushed  glass  in  their 

161 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

mouths  and  ate  it,  as  they  swallowed  fire,  as 
they  tore  live  serpents  to  pieces  with  their 
teeth  and  devoured  them,  as  they  thrust  dag- 
gers and  spikes  of  steel  through  their  cheeks, 
and  gashed  their  breasts  with  knives  and 
swords.  He  watched  the  effect  of  it  on  the 
Khedive;  but  Ismail  had  seen  all  this  before, 
and  he  took  it  in  the  stride.  This  was  not 
sufficient. 

Sadik  racked  his  brain  to  think  who  in  the 
palace  or  in  official  life  might  be  made  the 
scapegoat,  upon  whom  the  dark  spirit  in 
the  heart  of  the  Khedive  might  be  turned. 
His  mean,  colourless  eyes  w^andered  inquir- 
ingly over  the  crowd,  as  the  mad  dervishes, 
half-naked,  some  with  masses  of  dishevelled 
hair,  some  with  no  hair  at  all,  bleached,  hag- 
gard, moaning  and  shrieking,  threw  themselves 
to  the  groimd  on  the  matting,  while  attendants 
pulled  off  their  slippers  and  placed  them  under 
their  heads,  which  lay  face  downwards.  At 
last  Sadik's  eyes  were  arrested  by  a  group  of 
ten  dervishes,  among  them  one  short  in  stat- 
ure and  very  sliglit,  whose  gestures  were  not 
so  excited  as  those  of  his  fellows.  He  also 
saw  that  one  or  two  of  the  dervishes  watched 
the  slight  man  covertly. 

Five  of  the  little  group  suddenly  threw 
themselves   upon   the   matting,   adding  their 

162 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

bodies  to  the  highway  of  bones  and  flesh. 
Then  another  and  another  did  the  same,  leav- 
ing three  who,  with  the  httle  man,  made  a 
fanatical  chorus.  Now  the  three  near  the  lit- 
tle man  began  to  cut  themselves  with  steel  and 
knives,  and  one  set  fire  to  his  jibbeh  and  be- 
gan to  chew  the  flames.  Yet  the  faces  of  all 
three  were  turned  towards  the  little  man,  who 
did  no  more  than  shriek  and  gesticulate  and 
sway  his  body  wildly  up  and  down.  He  was 
tanned  and  ragged  and  bearded  and  thin,  and 
there  was  a  weird  brilHance  in  his  eyes,  which 
watched  his  companions  closely. 

So  fierce  and  frenzied  were  the  actions  of 
those  with  him,  that  the  attention  of  the  Khe- 
dive was  drawn;  and  Sadik,  looking  at  his 
master,  saw  that  his  eyes  also  were  intently 
fixed  on  the  little  man.  At  that  instant  the 
little  man  himself  caught  the  eye  of  the  Khe- 
dive, and  Ismail  involuntarily  dropped  a  hand 
upon  his  sword,  for  some  gesture  of  this  der- 
vish, some  fiuniliar  turn  of  his  body,  startled 
him.  Where  had  he  seen  the  gesture  before  ? 
Who  was  this  pilgi-im  who  did  not  cut  and 
wound  himself  like  his  companions?  Sud- 
denly the  three  mad  dervishes  waved  their 
hands  towards  the  matting  and  shrieked  some- 
thing into  his  ear.  The  little  man's  eyes  shot 
a  look   at  the    Khedive.     Ismairs  ferret  eye 

163 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

fastened  on  him,  and  a  quick  fear,  as  of  assas- 
sination, crossed  his  face  as  the  small  dervish 
ran  forward  with  the  other  three  to  the  lane  of 
human  flesh,  where  there  was  still  a  gap  to  be 
filled,  and  the  cry  rose  up  that  the  Sheikh  of 
the  Dosah  had  left  his  tent  and  was  about  to 
begin  his  direful  ride. 

Sadik  the  JNloufFetish  saw  the  Khedive's 
face,  and  suddenly  said  in  his  ear:  "Shall 
my  slave  seize  him,  Highness  whom  God  pre- 
serve  i 

The  Khedive  did  not  reply,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment he  recognised  the  dervish;  and  now  he 
understood  that  Dicky  Donovan  had  made  the 
pilgrimage  to  ]Mecca  with  the  ]\Iahmal  cara- 
van; that  an  infidel  had  desecrated  the  holy 
city ;  and  that  his  Englishman  had  hed  to  him. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  have  Dicky  seized 
and  cast  to  the  crowd,  to  be  torn  to  pieces. 
Dicky's  eyes  met  his  without  wavering — a  des- 
perate yet  resolute  look — and  Ismail  knew 
that  the  little  man  would  sell  his  life  dearly, 
if  he  had  but  half  a  chance.  He  also  saw 
in  Dicky's  eyes  the  old  honesty,  the  fearless 
straightforwardness — and  an  appeal  too,  not 
humble,  but  still  eager  and  downright.  Ismail's 
fury  was  great,  for  tlic  blue  devils  had  him  by 
the  heels  that  day;  but  on  the  instant  he  saw 
the  eyes  of  Sadik  the  Mouffctish,  and  their 

164. 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

■cunning,  cruelty  and  soulless  depravity,  their 
present  search  for  a  victim  to  his  master's  bad 
temper,  acted  at  once  on  Ismail's  sense  of  hu- 
mour. He  saw  that  Sadik  half  suspected 
something,  he  saw  that  Dicky's  three  compan- 
ions suspected,  and  his  mind  was  made  up  on 
the  instant— things  should  take  their  course: 
he  would  not  interfere.  He  looked  Dicky 
squarely  in  the  fiice,  and  Dicky  knew  that  the 
Khedive's  glance  said  as  plainly  as  words : 

"  Fool  of  an  Enghshman,  go  on  !  I  will  not 
kill  you,  but  I  will  not  save  you.  The  game 
is  in  your  hands  alone.  You  can  only  avert 
suspicion  by  letting  the  Sheikh  of  the  Dosah 
make  a  bridge  of  your  back.  Mecca  is  a  jest 
you  must  pay  for." 

With  the  wild  cry  of  a  dervish  fanatic  Dicky 
threw  himself  down,  his  head  on  his  arms,  and 
the  vengeful  three  threw  themselves  down  be- 
side him.  The  attendants  pulled  off  their 
slippers  and  thrust  them  under  their  faces,  and 
now  the  sdis  of  the  Sheikh  ran  over  their  bod- 
ies lightly,  calling  out  for  all  to  lie  still — the 
Sheikh  was  coming  on  his  horse. 

Dicky  weighed  his  chances  with  a  little 
shrinking,  but  with  no  fear :  he  had  been  in 
imminent  danger  for  four  long  months,  he  was 
little  likely  to  give  way  now.  The  tlu-ee  men 
lying  beside  him  had  only  suspected  him  for 
13  165 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

the  last  thi-ee  days,  and  during  that  time  they 
had  never  let  him  out  of  their  sight.  What 
had  roused  their  suspicion  he  did  not  know : 
probably  a  hesitation  concerning  some  Arab 
custom  or  the  pronunciation  of  some  Arab 
word — the  timbre  of  the  Arab  voice  was  rougher 
and  heavier.  There  had  been  no  chance  of  es- 
cape during  these  three  days,  for  his  three 
friends  had  never  left  his  side,  and  now  they 
were  beside  him.  His  chances  were  not  brill- 
iant. If  he  escaped  from  the  iron  hoofs  of  the 
Sheikh's  horse,  if  the  weight  did  not  crush  the 
life  out  of  his  small  body,  there  was  a  fair 
chance ;  for  to  escape  unhurt  from  the  Dosah  is 
to  prove  yourself  for  ever  a  good  JNIussulman, 
who  has  undergone  the  final  test  and  is  saved 
evermore  by  the  promise  of  the  Prophet.  But 
even  if  he  escaped  unhurt,  and  the  suspicions 
of  his  comrades  were  allayed,  what  would  the 
Khedive  do?  The  Khedive  had  recognised 
him,  and  had  done  nothing — so  far.  Yet  Is- 
mail, the  chief  Mussulman  in  Egypt,  should 
have  thrown  him  like  a  rat  to  the  terriers ! 
AVhy  he  had  acted  otlierwise  he  was  not  cer- 
tain :  perhaps  to  avoid  a  horrible  sensation  at 
the  Dosah  and  the  outcry  of  the  newspapers  of 
Europe;  perhaps  to  lia\'e  him  assassinated  pri- 
vately; perliaps,  after  all,  to  pardon  him.  Yet 
this  last  alternative  was  not  reasonable,  save 

166 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

from  the  standpoint  that  Ismail  had  no  rehg- 
ion  at  all. 

Whatever  it  was  to  be,  his  fate  would  soon 
come,  and  in  any  case  he  had  done  what  only 
one  European  before  him  had  done  :  he  had 
penetrated  to  the  tomb  of  Mahomet  at  Mec- 
ca. Whatever  should  come,  he  had  crowded 
into  his  short  life  a  thousand  unusual  and  in- 
teresting things.  His  inveterate  curiosity  had 
served  him  well,  and  he  had  paid  fairly  for  the 
candles  of  his  game.     He  was  ready. 

Low  moans  came  to  his  ears.  He  could 
hear  the  treading  hoofs  of  the  Sheikh's  horse. 
Nearer  and  nearer  the  frightened  animal  came ; 
the  shout  of  those  who  led  the  horse  was  in 
his  ears  :  "  Lie  close  and  still,  O  brothers  of 
giants  !  "  he  heard  the  ribs  of  a  man  but  two 
from  his  break, — he  heard  the  gurgle  in  the 
throat  of  another  into  whose  neck  the  horse's 
hoof  had  sunk.  He  braced  himself  and  drew 
his  breast  close  to  the  ground. 

He  could  hear  now  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  Sheikh  of  the  Dosah,  who,  to  strengthen 
himself  for  his  ride,  had  taken  a  heavy  dose 
of  hashish.  The  toe  of  the  Arab  leading  the 
horse  touched  his  head,  then  a  hoof  was  on 
him — between  the  shoulders,  pressing — press- 
ing down,  the  iron  crushing  into  the  flesh — 
down — down — down,  till  his  eyes  seemed  to 

167 


AT   THE   MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

fill  with  blood.  Then  another  hoof — and  this 
would  crush  the  life  out  of  him.  He  gasped, 
and  nerved  himself  The  iron  shoe  came 
down,  slipped  a  little,  grazed  his  side  roughly, 
and  sank  between  himself  and  the  dervish  next 
him,  who  had  shrunk  away  at  the  last  moment. 

A  mad  act ;  for  the  horse  stumbled,  and  in 
recovering  himself  plunged  forward  heavily. 
Dicky  expected  the  hind  hoofs  to  crush  down 
on  his  back  or  neck,  and  drew  in  his  breath ; 
but  the  horse,  excited  by  the  cries  of  the  peo- 
ple, drove  clear  of  him,  and  the  hind  hoofs  fell 
with  a  sickening  thud  on  the  back  and  neck 
of  the  dervish  who  had  been  the  cause  of  the 
disaster. 

Dicky  lay  still  for  a  moment  to  get  his 
breath,  then  sprang  to  his  feet  liglitly,  cast  a 
swift  glance  of  triumph  towards  the  Khedive, 
and  turned  to  the  dervishes  who  had  lain  be- 
side him.  The  man  who  had  shrunk  away 
from  the  horse's  hoofs  was  dead,  the  one  on 
the  other  side  was  badly  wounded,  and  the 
last,  bruised  and  dazed,  got  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"  God  is  great,"  said  Dicky  to  him :  "  I  have 
no  hurt,  Mahommed." 

"It  is  the  will  of  God.  Extolled  be  Him  who 
created  thee  ! "  answered  the  dervish,  all  suspi- 
cion gone,  and  admiration  in  his  eyes,  as  Dicky 
cried  his  Alldh  Kcrim — "God  is  bountiful!" 

168 


AT  THE   MERCY  OF  TIBERIUS 

A  kavass  touched  Dicky  on  the  arm. 

"  His  Highness  would  speak  with  you,"  he 
said. 

Dicky  gladly  turned  his  back  on  the  long 
lane  of  frantic  immolation  and  the  sight  of  the 
wounded  and  dead  being  carried  away.  Com- 
ing over  to  the  Khedive  he  salaamed,  and 
kneeling  on  the  ground  touched  the  toe  of  Is- 
mail's boot  with  his  forehead. 

Ismail  smiled,  and  his  eyes  dropped  with 
satisfaction  upon  the  prostrate  Dicky.  Never 
before  had  an  Englishman  done  this,  and  that 
Dicky  of  all  Englishmen  should  do  it  gave 
him  an  ironical  pleasure  wiiich  chased  his  black 
humour  away. 

"  It  is  written  that  the  true  believer  shall 
come  unscathed  from  the  hoofs  of  the  horse. 
Thou  hast  no  hurt,  JNIahommed  ?  " 

"  None,  Highness,  whose  life  God  preserve," 
said  Dicky  in  faultless  Arabic,  w^ith  the  eyes 
of  Sadik  upon  him  searching  his  mystery. 

"  May  the  dogs  bite  the  heart  of  thine  ene- 
mies !     What  is  thy  name  ?  "  said  Ismail. 

"  Rekab,  so  God  wills.  Highness." 

*  *  Thine  occupation  ? " 

"  I  am  a  poor  scribe.  Highness,"  answered 
Dicky  with  a  dangerous  humour,  though  he 
had  seen  a  look  in  the  Khedive's  face  which 
boded  only  safety. 

169 


AT   THE    MERCY   OF   TIBERIUS 

"  I  have  need  of  scribes.  Get  you  to  the 
Palace  of  Abdin,  and  wait  upon  me  at  sunset 
after  prayers,"  said  Ismail. 

"  I  am  the  slave  of  your  Highness.  Peace 
be  on  thee,  O  Prince  of  the  Faithful ! " 

"  A  moment,  JNIahommed.  Hast  thou  wife 
or  child? " 

"  None,  Highness." 

"Nor  kith  nor  kin?"  Ismail's  smile  was 
grim. 

"  They  be  far  away,  beyond  the  blessed  rule 
of  your  Highness." 

"  Thou  wilt  desire  to  return  to  them.  How 
long  wilt  thou  serve  me?"  asked  Ismail  slowly. 

"  Till  the  two  Karadh-gatherers  return,"  an- 
swered Dicky,  quoting  the  old  Arabic  saying 
wliich  means  for  ever,  since  the  two  Karadh- 
gatherers  who  went  to  gather  the  fruit  of  the 
sant  and  the  leaves  of  the  selem  never  returned. 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  Khedive,  and,  rising, 
waved  Dicky  away.     "  At  sunset." 

"  At  sunset  after  prayers,  Higliness,"  an- 
swered Dicky,  and  was  instantly  lost  in  the 
throng  wliicli  now  crowded  u])on  the  tent  to 
see  tlic  Sheikh  of  the  Dosah  arrive  to  make 
obeisance  to  Ismail. 

Tliat  night  at  sunset,  Dicky,  once  more 
clothed  and  shaven  and  well  appointed,   but 

170 


AT   THE   MERCY   OF   TIBERIUS 

bronzed  and  weather-beaten,  was  shown  into 
the  presence  of  the  Khedive,  whose  face  showed 
neither  pleasure  nor  displeasure. 

' '  You  have  returned  from  your  kith  and 
kin  in  England  ?  "  said  Ismail,  with  malicious 
irony. 

"  I  have  no  excuses,  Highness.  I  have  done 
what  I  set  out  to  do." 

"  If  1  had  given  you  to  death  as  an  infidel 
who  had  defiled  the  holy  tomb  and  the  sacred 
city " 

"  Your  Highness  would  have  lost  a  faith- 
ful servant,"  answered  Dicky.  "  I  took  my 
chances." 

"  Even  now  it  would  be  easy  to  furnish — 
accidents  for  you." 

"  But  not  wise,  Highness,  till  my  story  is 
told." 

"  Sadik  Pasha  suspects  you." 

"  I  suspect  Sadik  Pasha,"  answered  Dicky. 

"  Of  what?  "  said  Ismail,  starting.  "  He  is 
true  to  me — Sadik  is  true  to  me?"  he  urged, 
with  a  shudder;  for  if  Sadik  was  false  in  this 
crisis,  with  Europe  clamouring  for  the  pay- 
ment of  debts  and  for  reforms,  where  should 
he  look  for  faithful  knavery  ? 

"  He  will  desert  your  Highness  in  the  last 
ditch.  Let  me  tell  your  Highness  the  truth, 
in  return  for  saving  my  life.     Your  only  salva- 

171 


AT   THE   MERCY   OF  TIBERIUS 

tion  lies  in  giving  up  to  the  creditors  of  Egypt 
your  own  wealth,  and  Sadik's,  which  is  twice 
your  own." 

"  Sadik  will  not  give  it  up.** 

"  Is  not  Ismail  the  Khedive  master  in 
Egypt? " 

"  Sit  down  and  smoke,"  said  Ismail  eagerly, 
handing  Dicky  a  cigarette. 

AYhen  Dicky  left  the  Khedive  at  midnight, 
he  thought  he  saw  a  better  day  dawning  for 
Egypt.  He  felt  also  that  he  had  done  the 
land  a  good  turn  in  trying  to  break  the  shame- 
less contract  between  Ismail  and  Sadik  the 
MoufFetish ;  and  he  had  the  Khedive's  promise 
that  it  should  be  broken,  given  as  Ismail 
pinned  on  his  breast  the  Order  of  the  JMe- 
jidieh. 

He  was  not,  however,  prepared  to  hear  of 
the  arrest  of  the  Mouffetish  before  another 
sunset,  and  then  of  his  hugger-mugger  death, 
of  which  the  world  talks  to  this  day ;  though 
the  manner  of  it  is  only  known  to  a  few,  and 
to  them  it  is  an  ugly  memory. 


172 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  MAD 

'P  to  thirty- two  years  of  age 
David  Hyam,  of  the  village 
of  Framley,  in  Staffordshire, 
was  not  a  man  of  surprises. 
With  enough  of  this  world's 
goods  to  give  him  comfort  of 
body  and  suave  gravity  of  man- 
ner, the  figure  he  cut  was  becoming 
to  his  Quaker  origin  and  profession. 
No  one  suspected  the  dynamic  pos- 
sibilities of  his  nature  till  a  momentous 
day  in  August,  in  the  middle  Victorian 
period,  when  news  from  Bristol  came  that  an 
uncle  in  chocolate  had  died  and  left  him  the 
third  of  a  large  fortune,  without  condition  or 
proviso. 

This  was  of  a  Friday,  and  on  the  Saturday 
following  David  did  his  first  startling  act;  he 
offered  marriage  to  Faith  Marlowe,  the  only 
Quaker  girl  in  Framley  who  had  ever  dared  to 
discard  the  poke  bonnet  even  for  a  day,  and 
who  had  been  publicly  reproved  for  laughing 
in  meeting — for  Mistress  Faith  had  a  curious, 

173 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

albeit  demure  and  suggestive,  sense  of  humour; 
she  was,  in  truth,  a  kind  of  sacred  minuet  in 
gray.  Faith  had  promptly  accepted  David,  at 
the  same  time  taunting  him  softly  with  the 
facL  that  he  had  recklessly  declared  he  would 
never  marry,  even  saying  profanely  that  upon 
his  word  and  honour  he  never  would  I  She 
repeated  to  him  what  his  own  mother  once  re- 
plied to  his  audacious  worldly  protests  : 

"  If  thee  say  thee  will  never,  never,  never 
do  a  thing,  thee  will  some  day  surely  do  it." 

Then,  seeing  that  David  was  a  bit  chagrined. 
Faith  slipped  one  hand  into  his,  drew  him  back 
within  the  door,  lifted  the  shovel  hat  off  his 
forehead,  and  whispered  with  a  coquetry  un- 
worthy a  Quaker  maid : 

"  But  thee  did  not  say.  Friend  David,  thee 
would  never,  never,  never  smite  thy  friend  on 
both  cheeks  after  she  had  flouted  thee." 

Having  smitten  her  on  both  checks,  after 
the  manner  of  foolish  men,  David  gravely  got 
him  to  his  home  and  to  a  sound  sleep  that 
niglit.  Next  morning,  the  remembrance  of 
tlic  pleasant  smiting  roused  him  to  an  out- 
wardly sedate  and  inwardly  vainglorious  cour- 
age, (ioing  with  steady  steps  to  the  Friends* 
meeting-house  at  tlie  appointed  time,  the 
spirit  moved  him,  Jifter  a  decorous  pause,  to 
announce  his  intended  marriage  to  the  pret- 

174 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

tiest  Quaker  in  Framley,  even  the  maid  who 
had  shocked  the  community's  sense  of  deco- 
rum and  had  been  written  down  a  rebel  — 
though  these  things  he  did  not  say. 

From  the  recesses  of  her  poke  bonnet  Faith 
watched  the  effect  of  David's  words  upon  the 
meeting;  but  when  the  elders  turned  and 
looked  at  her,  as  became  her  judges  before 
the  Lord,  her  eyes  dropped;  also  her  heart 
thumped  so  hard  she  could  hear  it;  and  in  the 
silence  that  followed  it  seemed  to  beat  time  to 
the  words  like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock,  "  Fear 
not — Love  on  !  Fear  not — Love  on  ! "  But 
the  heart  beat  faster  still,  the  eyes  came  up 
quickly,  and  the  face  flushed  a  deep,  excited 
red  when  David,  rising  again,  said  that,  with 
the  consent  of  the  community — a  consent 
which  his  voice  subtly  insisted  upon  —  he 
would  take  a  long  journey  into  the  Holy  Land, 
into  Syria,  traveUing  to  Baalbec  and  Damas- 
cus, and  even  beyond  as  far  as  the  desolate 
city  of  Palmyra;  and  then,  afterwards,  into 
Egypt,  where  Joseph  and  the  sons  of  Israel 
were  captive  aforetime.  He  would  fain  ^  isit 
the  Red  Sea,  and  likewise  confer  with  the 
Coptic  Christians  in  Egypt,  "of  whom  thee 
and  me  have  read  to  our  comfort,"  he  added 
piously,  looking  at  Friend  Fairley,  the  oldest 

175 


ALL   TliE   WORLD'S   IMAD 

and  heretofore  the  richest  man  in  the  com- 
munity. 

Friend  Fairley  rejoiced  now  that  he  had  in 
bygone  days  lent  David  books  to  read  ;  but  he 
rejoiced  secretly,  for  though  his  old  bookman's 
heart  warmed  at  the  thought  that  he  should 
in  good  time  hear,  from  one  who  had  seen 
with  his  own  eyes,  of  the  wonders  of  the  East, 
it  became  him  to  assume  a  ponderous  placid- 
ity— for  Framley  had  always  been  doubtful  of 
his  bookishness  and  its  influence  on  such  as 
David.  They  said  it  boded  no  good;  there 
were  those  even  who  called  Fairley  '*a  new 
light,"  that  schism  in  a  sect. 

These  God-fearing,  dull  folk  were  present 
now,  and,  disapproving  of  David's  choice  in 
marriage,  disapproved  far  more  of  its  conse- 
quence; for  so  they  considered  the  projected 
journey  into  the  tumultuous  world  and  the 
garish  Orient.  In  the  end,  however,  an 
austere  approval  was  promised,  should  the 
solemn  commission  of  men  and  w^omen  ap- 
pointed to  confer  with  and  examine  the  can- 
didates find  in  their  favour — as  in  this  case 
they  would  certainly  do;  for  thirty  thousand 
pounds  bulked  potently  even  in  this  comnm- 
nity  of  unworldly  folk,  tliougli  smacking  some- 
what of  the  world,  the  Hcsli  and  the  devil. 

If  David,  however,  would  stand  to  the 
176 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

shovel  hat,  and  if  Faith  would  be  faithful  for- 
ever to  the  poke  bonnet  and  gray  cloth,  all 
might  yet  be  well.  At  the  same  time,  they 
considered  that  Friend  David's  mind  was  dis- 
tracted by  the  things  of  this  world,  and  they 
reasoned  with  the  Lord  in  prayer  upon  the 
point  in  David's  presence. 

In  worldly  but  rehgiously  controlled  dudg- 
eon David  left  the  meeting-house,  and  inside 
the  door  of  Faith's  cottage  said  to  his  own 
mother  and  to  hers  some  bitter  and  un-Quak- 
erlike  things  against  the  stupid  world — for  to 
him  as  yet  the  world  was  Framley,  though  he 
would  soon  mend  o'  that. 

When  he  had  done  speaking  against  "  the 
mad  wits  that  would  not  see,"  Faith  laid  her 
cool  fingers  on  his  arm  and  said,  with  a  de- 
mure humour,  "  All  the  world's  mad  but  thee 
and  me,  David — and  thee's  a  bit  mad  1 " 

So  pleased  was  David's  mother  with  this 
speech  that  then  and  there  she  was  reconciled 
to  Faith's  rebellious  instincts,  and  saw  safety 
for  her  son  in  the  hands  of  the  quaint,  clear- 
minded  daughter  of  her  old  friend  and  ftns- 
woman,  JVIercy  Marlowe. 


177 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 


II 


Within  three  months  David  and  Faith  had 
seen  the  hills  of  JNIoab  from  the  top  of  the 
JMount  of  Olives;  watched  the  sun  go  down 
over  the  Sea  of  Galilee;  plucked  green  boughs 
from  the  cedars  on  Lebanon ;  broke  into  placid 
exclamations  of  delight  in  the  wild  orchard  of 
nectarine  blossoms  by  the  lofty  ruins  of  Baal- 
bec;  walked  in  that  street  called  Straight  at 
Damascus;  journeyed  through  the  desert  with 
a  caravan  to  Palmyra  when  the  Druses  were 
up ;  and,  at  last,  looked  upon  the  spot  where 
lived  that  Pharaoh  who  knew  not  Joseph, 

In  this  land  they  stayed ;  and  even  now  far 
up  the  Nile  you  will  hear  of  the  Two  Strange 
People  who  travelled  the  river  even  to  Don- 
gola  and  some  way  back — for  a  long  time, 
only  some  way  back.  In  particular  you  will 
hear  of  them  from  an  old  dragoman  called 
Mohammed  Ramadan  Saggara,  and  a  white- 
haired  jeweller  of  Assiout,  called  Abdul  Hu- 
se># 

These  two  men  still  tell  the  tale  of  the  two 
mad  English  folk  with  faces  like  no  English 
people  ever  seen  in  Egypt,  who  refused  pro- 
tection in  their  travels,  but  went  fearlessly 
among  the  Arabs  everywhere,  to  do  good  and 

178 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

fear  not.  The  Quaker  hat  and  saddened  drab 
worked  upon  the  Arab  mind  to  advantage. 

In  Egypt,  David  and  Faith  found  their 
pious  mission — though  historians  have  since 
called  it  "  whimsical  and  unpractical":  David's 
to  import  the  great  Syrian  donkey,  which  was 
to  banish  the  shame  of  grossly  burdening  the 
small  donkey  of  the  land  of  Pharaoh;  and 
Faith's  to  build  schools  where  English  should 
be  taught,  to  exclude  "that  language  of 
Belial,"  as  David  called  French.  When  their 
schemes  came  home  to  Framley,  with  an  order 
on  David's  bankers  for  ten  thousand  pounds, 
gi'ay-garbed  consternation  walked  abroad,  and 
in  meeting  the  following  First  Day  no  one 
prayed  or  spoke  for  an  hour  or  more.  At  last, 
however,  Friend  Fairley  rose  in  his  place  and 
said : 

"  The  Lord  shall  deliver  the  heathen  into 
their  hands." 

Then  the  spirit  moved  freely  and  severely 
among  them  all,  and  Friend  Fairley  was,  as  he 
said  himself,  ' '  crowded  upon  the  rails  by  the 
yearlings  of  the  flock."  For  he  alone  o^ll 
Framley  believed  that  David  and  Faith  nad 
not  thrown  away  the  Quaker  drab,  the  shovel 
hat  and  the  poke  bonnet,  and  gone  forth  fash- 
ionable, worldly  and  an  hungered,  among  the 
fleshpots  of  Egypt.     There  was  talk  of  gilded 

179 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

palaces,  Saracenic  splendours  and   dark   sug- 
gestions from  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Still,  the  ten  thousand  pounds  went  to 
David  and  Faith  where  they  smilingly  la- 
boured through  the  time  of  High  Nile  and 
Low  Nile,  and  khamsin  and  sirocco,  and 
cholera,  and,  worse  than  all,  the  banishments 
to  the  hot  Siberia  of  Fazougli. 

But  JNIohammed  Ramadan  Saggara  babbles 
yet  of  the  time  when,  for  one  day,  David 
threw  away  his  shovel  hat ;  and  Abdul 
Huseyn,  the  jeweller,  tells  how,  on  the  same 
day,  the  S'ltt — that  is.  Faith — bought  of  him  a 
ring  of  turquoises  and  put  it  on  her  finger 
with  a  curious  smile. 

That  day  David  and  Faith,  the  one  in  a  pith 
helmet,  the  other  with  a  turquoise  ring  on  her 
left  hand,  went  to  dine  with  Kahoum  Pasha, 
the  Armenian  Governor  of  the  province,  a 
man  of  varied  talents,  not  least  of  wliich  was 
deceit  of  an  artistic  kind.  For,  being  an  Ar- 
menian, he  said  he  was  a  true  Christian,  and 
David  believed  him,  though  Faith  did  not ; 
anJIbeing  an  Oriental,  he  said  he  told  the 
truth  ;  and  again  David  believed  him,  though 
Faith  did  not.  He  had  a  red  beard,  an  eye 
that  glinted  red  also,  and  fat,  smooth  fingers 
which  kept  playing  with  a  string  of  beads  as 
though  it  were  a  rosary. 

180 


ALL    THE   WORLD'S    MAD 

As  hard  as  he  worked  to  destroy  the  Quaker 
in  David,  she  worked  against  him  ;  and  she  did 
not  fear  the  end,  for  she  beheved  in  David 
Hyam  of  Framley,  It  was  Kahoum  Pasha's 
influence,  persistently  and  adroitly  used  for 
two  years,  which  made  Friend  David  at  last 
put  aside  for  this  one  day  his  Quaker  hat. 
And  the  Pasha  rejoiced  ;  for,  knowing  human 
nature  after  a  fashion,  he  understood  that 
when  you  throw  the  outer  sign  away — the 
sign  to  you  since  your  birth,  Uke  the  fingers 
of  your  hand — the  inner  grace  begins  deca- 
dence and  in  due  time  disappears. 

Kahoum  Pasha  had  awaited  this  with  Ori- 
ental patience,  for  he  was  sure  that  if  David 
gave  way  in  one  thing  he  would  give  way  in 
all — and  with  a  rush,  some  day.  Now,  at  last, 
he  had  got  David  and  Faith  to  dine  Avith  him; 
he  had  his  meshes  of  deceit  around  them. 

When  they  came  to  dinner  Kahoum  Pasha 
saw  the  turquoise  ring  upon  the  finger  of  Friend 
Faith,  and  this  startled  him  and  pleased  him. 
Here,  he  knew,  was  his  greatest  enemy  where 
David  was  concerned,  and  yet  this  pretty  Saint 
Elizabeth  was  wearing  a  fine  turquoise  ring 
with  a  poke  bonnet,  in  a  very  worldly  fashion. 
He  almost  rubbed  his  eyes,  it  was  so  hard  to 
believe ;  for  time  and  again  he  had  offered 
antichi  in  bracelets,  rings  and  scarabs,  and 
13  181 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

fine  cottons  from  Beni-Mazar;  and  had  been 
promptly  and  firmly  told  that  the  Friends 
wore  no  jewellery  nor  gay  attire.  Kahoum 
Pasha,  being  a  Christian — after  the  Armenian 
fasiiion — then  desired  to  learn  of  this  strange 
religion,  that  his  own  nature  might  be  bet- 
tered, for,  alas !  snares  for  the  soul  are  many 
in  the  Orient.  For  this  Faith  had  quietly  but 
firmly  referred  him  to  David. 

Then  he  had  tried  another  tack:  he  had 
thrown  in  his  interest  with  her  first  school  in 
his  mudirieh ;  he  got  her  Arab  teachers  from 
Cairo  who  could  speak  English ;  he  opened 
the  large  schoolhouse  himself  with  great  cere- 
mony, and  with  many  kavasses  in  blue  and 
gold.  He  said  to  himself  that  you  never 
could  tell  what  would  happen  in  this  world, 
and  it  was  well  to  wait,  and  to  watch  the  ap- 
proach of  that  good  angel  Opportunity. 

AVith  all  his  devices,  however,  lie  could  not 
quite  understand  Faith,  and  he  walked  warily, 
lest  through  his  lack  of  understanding  he 
should,  by  some  mischance,  come  suddenly 
upon  a  reef,  and  his  plans  go  shipwreck.  Yet 
all  the  time  he  laughed  in  his  sleeve,  for  he 
foresaw  the  day  when  all  this  money  the  Two 
Strange  People  were  spending  in  his  mudirieh 
should  become  his  own.  If  he  could  not  get 
their  goods  and  estates  peaceably,  riots  were 

182 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

so  easy  to  arrange ;  he  had  arranged  them  be- 
fore. Then,  when  the  Two  Strange  People 
had  been  struck  with  panic,  the  Syrian  don- 
key-market, and  the  five  hundred  feddans  of 
American  cotton,  and  the  new  schools  would 
be  his  for  a  song — or  a  curse. 

When  he  saw  the  turquoise  ring  on  the  fin- 
ger of  the  little  Quaker  lady  he  fancied  he 
could  almost  hear  the  accompaniment  of  the 
song.  He  tore  away  tender  portions  of  roast- 
ed lamb  with  his  fingers,  and  crammed  them 
into  his  mouth,  rejoicing.  With  the  same 
greasy  fingers  he  put  upon  Faith's  plate  a 
stuffed  cucumber,  and  would  have  added  a 
clammy  sweet  and  a  tumbler  of  sickly  sherbet 
at  the  same  moment ;  but  Faith  ate  nothing 
save  a  cake  of  dourha  bread,  and  drank  only  a 
cup  of  coffee. 

Meanwhile,  Kahoum  Pasha  talked  of  the 
school,  of  the  donkey-market,  the  monopoly  of 
which  the  Khedive  had  granted  David ;  and 
of  the  new  prosperous  era  opening  up  in 
Egypt,  due  to  the  cotton  David  had  intro- 
duced as  an  experiment.  David's  heart  waxed 
proud  within  him  that  he  had  walked  out  of 
Framley  to  the  regeneration  of  a  country. 
He  likened  himself  to  Joseph,  son  of  Jacob; 
and  at  once  the  fineness  of  his  first  purposes 
became  blunted. 

183 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

As  Kahoum  Pasha  talked  on,  of  schools,  of 
taxes,  of  laws,  of  government,  to  David,  with 
no  hat  on — Samson  without  his  hair — Faith's 
mind  was  working  as  it  had  never  worked  be- 
fore. She  realised  what  a  prodigious  liar  Ka- 
houm Pasha  was;  for,  talking  benignly  of 
e(juitable  administration  as  he  did,  she  re- 
called the  dark  stories  she  had  heard  of  ra- 
pine and  cruel  imprisonment  in  this  same 
mudirieh. 

Suddenly  Kahoum  Pasha  saw  the  dark  blue 
eyes  fastened  upon  his  face  with  a  curious  in- 
tentness,  a  strange  questioning ;  and  the  blue 
of  the  turquoise  on  the  hand  folded  over  the 
other  in  the  gray  lap  did  not  quite  reassure 
him.  He  stopped  talking,  and  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  to  his  kavass,  who  presently  brought  a 
bottle  of  champagne — a  final  proof  that  Ka- 
houm Pasha  was  not  an  ascetic  or  a  Turk. 
As  the  bottle  Avas  being  opened  the  Pasha 
took  up  his  string  of  beads  and  began  to  fin- 
ger tliem,  for  the  blue  eyes  in  the  poke  bonnet 
were  disconcerting.  He  was  about  to  speak 
when  Faith  said,  in  a  clear  voice : 

"  Thee  has  a  strange  people  beneath  thee. 
Thee  rules  by  the  sword,  or  the  word  of  peace, 
friend  ? " 

The  fat,  smooth  liands  fingered  the  beads 
swiftly.     Kahoum  Pasha  was  disturbed,  as  he 

184 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

proved  by  replying  in  French — he  had  spent 
years  of  his  youth  in  France : 

''Par  la  force,  morale,  toiijoiirs,  madame — 
by  moral  force,  always,"  he  hastened  to  add  in 
Enghsh.  Then,  casting  down  his  eyes  with 
truly  Armenian  modesty,  he  continued  in 
Arabic :  "  By  the  word  of  peace,  oh,  woman 
of  the  clear  eyes — to  whom  God  give  length 
of  days  ! " 

Kahoum  Pasha  smiled  a  greasy  smile,  and 
held  the  bottle  of  champagne  over  the  glass 
set  for  Friend  David. 

Never  in  his  life  had  David  the  Quaker 
tasted  champagne.  In  his  eyes,  in  the  eyes  of 
Framley,  it  had  been  the  brew  especially  pre- 
pared by  Sheitan  to  tempt  to  ruin  the  feeble 
ones  of  the  earth.  But  the  doublet  of  David's 
mind  was  all  unbraced  now;  his  hat  was  off, 
his  Quaker  drab  was  spotted  with  the  grease 
of  a  roasted  lamb.  He  had  tasted  freedom; 
he  was  near  to  license  now. 

He  took  his  hand  from  the  top  of  the  glass, 
and  the  amber  liquid  and  the  froth  poured  in. 
At  that  instant  he  saw  Faith's  eyes  upon  his, 
he  saw  her  hand  go  to  the  poke  bonnet,  as  it 
were  to  unloosen  the  strings.  He  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  turquoise  ring ;  he  saw  the  eyes 
of  Kahoum  Pasha  on  Faith  with  a  look  proph- 
esying several  kinds  of  triumph,  none  pala- 

185 


ALL    THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

table  to  him ;  and  he  stopped  short  on  that 
road  easy  of  gi-adient,  which  Kahoum  Pasha 
was  macadamising  for  him.  He  put  his  hand 
up  as  though  to  pull  his  hat  down  over  his 
eyes,  as  was  his  fashion  wheli  troubled  or 
when  he  was  setting  his  mind  to  a  task. 

The  hat  was  not  there ;  but  Faith's  eyes 
were  on  his,  and  there  were  a  hundred  Quaker 
hats  or  Cardinals'  hats  in  them.  He  reached 
out  quickly  and  caught  Faith's  hand  as  it  un- 
did the  strings  of  her  gray  bonnet. 

"  Will  thee  be  mad,  Faith  ?  " 

"All  the  world's  mad  but  thee  and  me, 
David,  and  thee's  a  bit  mad,"  she  answered 
in  the  tongue  of  Framley. 

"  The  gaud  upon  thy  hand  ? "  he  asked 
sternly  ;  and  his  eyes  flashed  from  her  to  Ka- 
houm Pasha,  for  a  horrible  suspicion  crept  into 
liis  brain — a  shameless  suspicion ;  but  even  a 
Quaker  may  be  human  and  foolish,  as  history 
has  shown. 

"  The  wine  at  thine  elbow,  David,  and  thine 
hat !  "  slie  answered  steadily. 

David,  the  friend  of  peace,  was  bitterly  an- 
gry. He  cauglit  up  tlic  glass  of  cliampagne 
and  dashed  it  upon  the  fine  prayer-rug  which 
Kalioum  Paslui  had,  with  a  kourbash,  collected 
for  taxes  from  a  (ireck  merchant  back  from 
Tiflis — the    rug    worth    five    hundred    Eng- 

186 


ALL    THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

lish  pounds,  the  taxes  but  twenty  Turkish 
pounds. 

"  Thee  is  a  villani,  friend,"  he  said  to  Ka- 
houm  Pasha  in  a  voice  hke  a  noise  in  a  barrel ; 
"  I  read  thee  as  a  book." 

"Through  the  eyes  of  your  wife,  effendi; 
she  read  me  first — we  understand  each  other ! " 
answered  the  Governor  with  a  hateful  smile, 
knowing  the  end  of  one  game  was  at  hand, 
and  instantly  beginning  another  with  an  in- 
telligent malice. 

Against  all  Quaker  principles  David's  sinful 
arm  was  lifted  to  strike,  but  Faith's  hand  pre- 
vented him,  and  Kahoum  Pasha  motioned 
back  the  Abyssinian  slaves  who  had  sprung 
forward  menacingly  from  behind  a  screen. 

Faith  led  the  outraged  David,  hatless,  into 
the  street. 

Ill 

That  evening  the  Two  Strange  People  went 
to  Abdul  Huseyn,  the  jeweller,  and  talked  with 
him  for  more  than  an  hour ;  for  Abdul  Hu- 
seyn, as  Egyptians  go,  was  a  kindly  man.  He 
had  taught  Arabic  to  David  and  Faith.  He 
would  have  asked  more  than  twelve  pieces  of 
silver  to  betray  them. 

The  next  afternoon  a  riot  occurred  around 
187 


ALL   THE   WORLD'S   MAD 

the  house  of  the  Two  Strange  People  and  the 
school  they  had  built;  and  Kahoum  Pasha 
would  have  had  his  spite  of  them,  and  his  will 
of  the  donkey-market,  the  school,  and  the  cot- 
top-fields,  but  for  Abdul  Huseyn  and  three 
Sheikhs,  friends  of  his — at  a  price — who  ad- 
dressed the  crowd  and  quieted  them.  They 
declared  that  the  Two  were  mad  folk  with 
whom  even  the  English  folk  would  have 
naught  to  do;  that  they  were  of  those  from 
whom  God  had  taken  the  souls,  leaving  their 
foolish  bodies  on  earth,  and  were  therefore  to 
be  cared  for  and  protected,  as  the  Koran  said, 
be  they  infidel  or  the  Faithful. 

Furthermore,  said  Abdul  Huseyn,  in  proof 
of  their  madness  and  a  certain  sort  of  holiness, 
they  wore  hats  always,  as  Arabs  wore  their 
turbans,  and  were  as  like  good  Mohammedans 
as  could  be,  sitting  down  to  speak  and  stand- 
ing up  to  pray.  He  also  added  that  they 
could  not  be  enemies  of  the  Faithful,  or  a 
Christian  Mudir  would  not  have  turned 
against  them.  And  Abdul  Huseyn  prevailed 
against  Kahoum  Pasha — at  a  price;  for  Faith, 
seeing  no  need  for  martyrdom,  had  not  hesi- 
tated to  open  her  purse. 

Three  days  afterward,  David,  with  Abdul 
Huseyn,  went  to  the  Palace  of  the  Khedive  at 

188 


AI.L   THE    WORLD'S   MAD 

Cairo,  and  within  a  week  Kahoum  Pasha  was 
on  his  way  to  FazougU,  the  hot  Siberia.  For 
the  rage  of  the  Khedive  was  great  when  he 
heard  what  David  and  Abdul  Huseyn  told 
him  of  the  murderous  riot  Kahoum  Pasha 
had  planned.  David  being  an  honest  Quaker 
— for  now  again  he  wore  his  shovel  hat — did 
not  realise  that  the  Khedive  had  only  hun- 
gered for  this  chance  to  confiscate  the  goods 
of  Kahoum  Pasha.  Was  it  not  justice  to 
take  for  the  chosen  ruler  of  the  Faithful  the 
goods  an  Armenian  Christian  had  stolen  from 
the  poor?  Before  David  left  the  Palace  the 
Khedive  gave  him  the  Order  of  the  Mejidieh, 
in  token  of  what  he  had  done  for  Egypt. 

In  the  end,  however,  David  took  three 
things  only  out  of  Egypt :  his  wife,  the  Order 
of  the  INIejidieh,  and  Kahoum  Pasha's  pardon, 
which  he  strove  for  as  hard  as  he  had  striven 
for  his  punishment,  when  he  came  to  know 
the  Khedive  had  sent  the  INIudir  to  Fazougli 
merely  that  he  might  despoil  him.  He  only 
achieved  this  at  last,  again  on  the  advice  of 
Abdul  Huseyn,  by  giving  the  Khedive  as 
backsheesh  the  Syrian  donkey-market,  the 
five  hundred  feddans  of  cotton,  and  Faith's 
new  school.  Then,  beheving  in  no  one  in 
Egypt  any  more,  he  himself  went  with  an 
armed   escort   and   his  Quaker  hat,  and   the 

189 


ALL   THE    WORLD'S   MAD 

Order  of  the  Khedive,  to  Fazough,  and 
brought  Kahoum  Pasha  penniless  to  Cairo. 

Nowadays,  on  the  mastaba  before  his  grand- 
son's door,  Abdul  Huseyn,  over  ninety  *'  by 
the  grace  of  Allah,"  still  tells  of  the  back- 
sheesh he  secured  from  the  Two  Strange  Peo- 
ple for  his  help  on  a  certain  day. 

In  Framley,  wiiere  the  w^hole  truth  never 
came,  David  and  Faith  occasionally  take  from 
a  secret  drawer  the  Order  of  the  Mejidieh  to 
look  at  it,  and,  as  David  says,  to  "  learn  the 
lesson  of  Egypt  once  again."  Having  learned 
it  to  some  purpose — and  to  the  lifelong  edifi- 
cation of  old  Friend  Fairley,  the  only  one  who 
knew  the  whole  truth— tliey  founded  three 
great  schools  for  Quaker  children.  They  were 
w^ont  to  say  to  each  other,  as  the  hurrying 
world  made  inroads  on  the  strict  Quaker  life 
to  wliicli  tlicy  had  returned  :  "  ^Vll  the  world's 
mad  but  thee  and  me,  and  thee's  a  bit  mad." 


190 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  WHEEL 


YNDHAM  BIMBASHI'S 

career  in  Egypt  had  been  a 
series  of  mistakes.  In  the 
first  place  he  was  opinion- 
ated, in  the  second  place  he 
never  seemed  to  have  any 
luck;  and,  worst  of  all,  he 
had  a  little  habit  of  doing 
grave  things  on  his  own 
lightsome  responsibility. 
This  last  quality  was  natural 
to  him,  but  he  added  to  it  a  supreme  contempt 
for  the  native  mind  and  an  unhealthy  scorn  of 
the  native  official.  He  had  not  that  rare  qual- 
ity, constantly  found  among  his  fellow-coun- 
trymen, of  working  the  native  up  through  his 
own  medium,  as  it  were,  through  his  own  cus- 
toms and  predispositions,  to  the  soundness  of 
Western  methods  of  government.  Therefore, 
in  due  time  he  made  some  dangerous  mis- 
takes. 

By  virtue  of  certain  high-handed  actions  he 
191 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

was  the  cause  of  several  riots  in  native  villages, 
and  he  had  himself  been  attacked  at  more  than 
one  village  as  he  rode  between  the  fields  of 
sugar-cane.  On  these  occasions  he  had  be- 
h:ived  very  well — certainly  no  one  could  pos- 
sibly doubt  his  bravery ;  but  that  was  a  small 
offset  to  the  ftict  that  his  want  of  tact  and  his 
overbearing  manner  had  been  the  means  of 
turning  a  certain  tribe  of  Arabs  loose  upon 
the  country,  raiding  and  killing. 

But  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  see  his  own 
vain  stupidity.  The  climax  came  in  a  foolish 
sortie  against  the  Arab  tribe  he  had  offended. 
In  that  unauthorised  melee ,  in  covert  disobe- 
dience to  a  general  order  not  to  attack,  unless 
at  advantage — for  the  (iippies  under  him  were 
raw  levies — his  troop  was  diminished  by  half ; 
and,  cut  off  from  the  Nile  by  a  flank  move- 
ment of  the  Arabs,  he  was  obliged  to  retreat 
and  take  refuge  in  the  well-fortified  and  walled 
house,  which  had  previously  been  a  Coptic 
monastery. 

Here,  at  last,  the  truth  came  home  to 
Wyndliam  Bimbashi.  He  realised  that  though 
in  his  six  years'  residence  in  the  land  he  had 
acquired  a  command  of  Arabic  equal  to  that 
of  others  who  had  been  in  the  country  twice 
that  time,  he  had  accjiiircd  little  else.  He 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  in  his  cocksure  schemes 

m 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

for  the  civil  and  military  life  of  Egypt,  there 
was  not  one  element  of  sound  sense ;  that  he 
had  been  all  along  an  egregious  failure.  It 
did  not  come  home  to  him  with  clear,  accu- 
rate conviction — his  brain  was  not  a  first-rate 
medium  for  illumination ;  but  the  facts  struck 
him  now  with  a  blind  sort  of  force;  and  he 
accepted  the  blank  sensation  of  failure.  Also, 
he  read  in  the  faces  of  those  round  him  an 
alien  spirit,  a  chasm  of  black  misunderstand- 
ing which  his  knowledge  of  Arabic  could 
never  bridge  over. 

Here  he  was,  shut  up  with  Gippies  who  had 
no  real  faith  in  him,  in  the  house  of  a  Sheikh 
whose  servants  would  cut  his  throat  on  no 
provocation  at  all ;  and  not  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
away  was  a  horde  of  Arabs — a  circle  of  death 
through  which  it  was  impossible  to  break  with 
the  men  in  his  command.  They  must  all  die 
here,  if  they  were  not  relieved. 

The  nearest  garrison  was  at  Kerbat,  sixty 
miles  away,  where  five  hundred  men  were 
stationed.  Now  that  his  cup  of  mistakes  was 
full,  Wyndham  Bimbashi  would  willingly 
have  made  the  attempt  to  carry  word  to  the 
garrison  there.  But  he  had  no  right  to  leave 
his  post.  He  called  for  a  volunteer.  No 
man  responded.  Panic  was  upon  the  Gippies. 
Though    Wyndham's    heart   sickened   within 

193 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

him,  his  hps  did  not  frame  a  word  of  reproach ; 
but  a  blush  of  shame  came  into  his  face,  and 
crept  up  to  his  eyes,  dimming  them.  For 
there  flashed  through  his  mind  what  men  at 
Home  would  think  of  him  when  this  thing, 
such  an  end  to  his  whole  career,  was  known. 
As  he  stood  still,  upright  and  confounded, 
some  one  touched  his  arm. 

It  was  Hassan,  his  Soudanese  servant. 
Hassan  was  the  one  person  in  Egypt  who 
thoroughly  believed  in  him.  Wyndham  was 
as  a  god  to  Hassan,  though  this  same  god  had 
given  him  a  taste  of  a  belt  more  than  once. 
Hassan  had  not  resented  the  belt,  though 
once,  in  a  moment  of  affectionate  confidence, 
he  had  said  to  Wyndham  tliat  when  his  mas- 
ter got  old  and  died  he  would  be  the  servant 
of  an  American  or  a  missionary,  "who  no 
whack  JNIahommed." 

It  was  Hassan  who  now  volunteered  to 
carry  word  to  the  garrison  at  Kerbat. 

"  If  I  no  carry,  you  whack  me  with  belt, 
pasha,"  said  Hassan,  whose  logic  and  reason 
were  like  his  master's,  neither  better  nor 
worse. 

"  If  you  do,  you  sliall  have  fifty  pounds — 
and  tlic  missionary,"  answered  ^Vyndham,  his 
eyes  still  cloudy  and  his  voice  tliick ;  for  it 
touched  him  in  a  tender  nerve  that  this  one 

194 


THE    MAN   AT    THE    WHEEL 

Soudanese  boy  should  believe  in  him  and  do 
for  him  what  he  would  give  much  to  do  for 
the  men  under  him.  For  his  own  life  he  did 
not  care,  his  confusion  and  shame  were  too 
great. 

He  watched  Hassan  steal  out  into  the  white 
brilliance  of  the  night. 

"  Mind  you  keep  a  whole  skin,  Hassan,"  he 
said,  as  the  slim  lad  with  the  white  teeth,  oily 
hair,  and  legs  like  ivory,  stole  along  the  wall, 
to  drop  presently  on  his  belly  and  make  for 
some  palm-trees  a  hundred  yards  away. 

The  minutes  went  by  in  silence;  an  hour 
went  by;  the  whole  night  went  by;  Has- 
san had  got  beyond  the  circle  of  trenchant 
steel. 

They  must  now  abide  Hassan's  fate;  but 
another  peril  was  upon  them.  There  was  not 
a  goolah  of  water  within  the  walls  ! 

It  was  the  time  of  low  Nile  when  all  the 
land  is  baked  like  a  crust  of  bread,  when  the 
creaking  of  the  shadoofs  and  the  singing  croak 
of  the  sakkia  are  heard  the  niglit  long  like 
untiring  crickets  with  throats  of  frogs.  It  was 
the  time  succeeding  the  kliamsin,  when  the 
skin  dries  like  slaked  lime  and  the  face  is  for 
ever  powdered  with  dust;  and  the  fellaheen, 
in  the  slavery  of  superstition,  strain  their  eyes 
day  and  night  for  the    Sacred  Drop,  which 

195 


THE   MAN   AT    THE    WHEEL 

tells  that  the  flood  is  flowing  fast  from  the 
hills  of  Abyssinia. 

It  was  like  the  Egyptian  that  nothing 
should  be  said  to  Wyndham  about  the  dearth 
of  water  until  it  was  all  gone.  The  house  of 
the  Sheikh,  and  its  garden,  where  were  a  pool 
and  a  fountain,  were  supplied  from  the  great 
Persian  wheel  at  the  waterside.  On  this  par- 
ticular sakkia  had  been  wont  to  sit  all  day  a 
patient  fellah,  driving  the  blindfolded  buffa- 
loes in  their  turn.  It  was  like  the  patient 
fellah,  when  the  Arabs,  in  pursuit  of  Wynd- 
ham and  his  Gippies,  suddenly  cut  in  between 
him  and  the  house,  to  deliver  himself  over  to 
the  conqueror,  with  his  hand  upon  his  head  in 
sign  of  obedience. 

It  was  also  like  the  gentle  Egyptian  that  he 
eagerly  showed  the  besiegers  how  the  water 
could  be  cut  off*  from  the  house  by  dropping 
one  of  the  sluice-gates ;  while,  opening  an- 
other, all  the  land  around  the  Arab  encamp- 
ments might  be  well  watered,  the  pools  well 
filled,  and  the  grass  kept  green  for  horses  and 
camels.  This  was  the  reason  that  AVyndham 
Himbashi  and  his  Gippies,  and  the  Sheikh  and 
his  household,  faced  the  fact,  the  morning 
after  II assail  left,  that  there  was  scarce  a  goo- 
lah  of  water  for  a  hundred  burning  throats. 
Wyndham  understood   now   why  the  Arabs 

196 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

sat  down  and  waited,  that  torture  might  be 
added  to  the  oncoming  death  of  the  English- 
man, his  natives,  and  the  "  friendhes." 

All  that  day  terror  and  ghastly  hate  hung 
like  a  miasma  over  the  besieged  house  and 
garden.  Fifty  eyes  hungered  for  the  blood  of 
Wyndham  Bimbashi ;  not  because  he  was 
Wyndham  Bimbashi,  but  because  the  heathen 
in  these  men  cried  out  for  sacrifice;  and  what 
so  agreeable  a  sacrifice  as  the  Englishman  who 
had  led  them  into  this  disaster  and  would  die 
so  well — had  they  ever  seen  an  Englishman 
who  did  not  die  well? 

Wyndham  was  quiet  and  watchful,  and  he 
cudgelled  his  bullet-head,  and  looked  down 
his  long  nose  in  meditation  all  the  day,  while 
his  tongue  became  dry  and  thick,  and  his 
throat  seemed  to  crack  hke  roasting  leather. 
At  length  he  worked  the  problem  out.  Then 
he  took  action. 

He  summoned  his  troop  before  him,  and  said 
briefly : 

"  ^len,  we  must  have  water.  The  question 
is,  who  is  going  to  steal  out  to  the  sakkia  to- 
night, to  shut  the  one  sluice  and  open  the 
other?" 

No  one  replied.  No  one  understood  quite 
what  Wyndham  meant.  Shutting  one  sluice 
and  opening  the  other  did  not  seem  to  meet 
14  197 


THE  MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

the  situation.  There  was  the  danger  of  get- 
ting to  the  sakkia,  but  there  was  also  an  after. 
\Vould  it  be  possible  to  shut  one  sluice  and 
open  the  other  without  the  man  at  the  wheel 
knowing  ?  Suppose  you  killed  the  man  at  the 
wheel — what  then  ? 

The  Gippies  and  the  friendlies  scowled,  but 
did  not  speak.  The  Bimbashi  was  responsi- 
ble for  all ;  he  was  an  Englishman,  let  him  get 
water  for  them,  or  die  Hke  the  rest  of  them — 
perhaps  before  them  ! 

\Vyndham  could  not  travel  the  sinuosities 
of  their  minds,  and  it  would  not  have  affected 
his  purposes  if  he  could  have  done  so.  When 
no  man  replied,  he  simply  said  : 

'*  All  right,  men.  You  shall  have  water  be- 
fore morning.  Try  and  hold  out  till  then." 
He  dismissed  them 

For  a  long  time  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
garden  of  straggling  hmes,  apparently  listless, 
and  smoking  hard.  He  reckoned  carefully 
liow  long  it  would  take  Hassan  to  get  to  Ker- 
})at,  and  for  relief  to  come.  He  was  fond  of 
liis  pipe,  and  he  smoked  now  as  if  it  were  the 
thing  he  most  enjoyed  in  tlie  world.  He 
licld  the  bowl  in  the  hollow  of  liis  hand  al- 
most tenderly.  He  seemed  unconscious  of 
the  scowling  looks  around  him.  At  last  he 
sat  down  on  the  ledge  of  the  rude  fountain, 

198 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

with  his  face  towards  the  Gippies  and  the 
Arabs  squatted  on  the  ground,  some  playing 
mankalah,  others  sucking  dry  hme  leaves, 
many  smoking  apathetically. 

One  man  with  the  flicker  of  insanity  in  his 
eyes  suddenly  ran  forward  and  threw  himself 
on  the  ground  before  Wyndham. 

"  In  the  name  of  God  the  Compassionate, 
the  JNlerciful — water !  "  he  cried.  "  Water — I 
am  dying,  efFendi  whom  God  preserve  ! " 

"  Nile  water  is  sweet ;  you  shall  drink  it  be- 
fore morning,  JNIahommed,"  answered  Wynd- 
ham quietly.  "  God  will  preserve  your  life  till 
the  Nile  water  cools  your  throat." 

"Before  dawn,  O  effendi?"  gasped  the  Arab. 

"  Before  dawn,  by  the  mercy  of  God,"  an- 
swered Wyndham;  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  had  a  burst  of  imagination.  The 
Orient  had  touched  him  at  last. 

"Is  not  the  song  of  the  sakkia  in  thine  ear, 
Mahommed?"  he  said. 

"  Turn,  O  Sakkia,  turn  to  the  right,  and  turn  to  the  left. 
The  Nile  floweth  by  night  and  the  balasses  are  filled  at 

dawn — 
The  maid  of  the  village  shall  bear  to  thy  bed,  the  dewy 
gray  goolah  at  dawn, — 

Turn,  O  Sakkia  !  " 

Wyndham  was  learning  at  last  the  way  to 
the  native  mind. 

199 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

The  man  rose  from  his  knees.  A  vision  of 
his  home  in  the  mirkaz  of  JNlinieh  passed  be- 
fore him.  He  stretched  out  his  hands,  and 
sang  in  the  vibrating  monotone  of  his  people  : 

"  Turn,  O  Sakkia,  turn  to  tlie  right,  and  turn  to  the  left : 
Who  will  take  care  of  me,  if  my  father  dies  ! 
Who  will  give  me  water  to  drink,  and  the  cucumber 
vine  at  my  door — 

Turn  O,  Sakkia  !  " 

Then  he  crept  back  again  to  the  wall  of  the 
house,  where  he  huddled  between  a  Berberine 
playing  a  darabukkeh  and  a  man  of  the  Fay- 
oum  who  chanted  the  Jafi/i ah  from  the  Koran. 

AVyndham  looked  at  them  all  and  pondered. 
"  If  the  devils  out  there  would  only  attack 
us,"  he  said  between  his  teeth,  "  or  if  we  could 
only  attack  them ! "  he  added,  and  he  nerv- 
ously hastened  his  footsteps;  for  to  him  this 
inaction  was  terrible.  "  They'd  forget  their 
tliirst  if  they  were  fighting,"  he  muttered,  and 
then  lie  frowned ;  for  the  painful  neighing  of 
the  liorses  behind  the  house  came  to  his  ear. 
In  desperation  he  went  inside  and  climbed  to 
the  roof,  where  he  could  see  tlie  circle  of  the 
enemy. 

It  was  no  use.  They  were  five  to  one,  and 
liis  (iippies  were  demoralised.  It  would  be  a 
fine    bit   of    phick   to   try  and   cut   his   way 

WO 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

through  the  Arabs  to  the  Nile — but  how 
many  would  reach  it? 

No,  he  had  made  his  full  measure  of  mis- 
takes, he  would  not  add  to  the  hst.  If  Has- 
san got  through  to  Kerbat  his  Gippies  here 
would  no  doubt  be  relieved,  and  there  w^ould 
be  no  more  blood  on  his  head.  Relieved  ? 
And  when  they  were  relieved,  what  of  himself, 
Wyndham  Bimbashi?  He  knew  what  men 
would  say  in  Cairo,  what  men  would  say  at  the 
War  Office  in  London  town,  at  "  The  Rag  " — 
everywhere !  He  could  not  look  his  future  in 
the  face.  He  felt  that  every  man  in  Egypt, 
save  himself,  had  known  all  along  that  he  was 
a  complete  failure. 

It  did  not  matter  while  he  himself  was  not 
conscious  of  it  ;  but  now  that  the  armour- 
plate  of  conceit  protecting  his  honest  mind 
had  been  torn  away  on  the  reefs  of  foolish 
deeds,  it  mattered  everything.  For  when  his 
conceit  was  peeled  away,  there  was  left  a  crim- 
son cuticle  of  the  Wyndham  pride.  Certainly 
he  could  not  attack  the  Arabs  :  he  had  had  his 
eternal  fill  of  sorties. 

Also  he  could  not  wait  for  the  reUef  party, 
for  his  Gippies  and  the  friendlies  were  famish- 
ing, dying  of  thirst.  He  prayed  for  night. 
How  slowly  tlie  minutes,  the  hours  passed; 
and  how  bright  was  the  moon  when  it  rose  I 

201 


THE  MAN  AT   THE  WHEEL 

brighter  even  than  it  was  when  Hassan  crept 
out  to  steal  through  the  Arab  Unes. 

At  midnight,  Wyndliam  stole  softly  out  of 
a  gate  in  the  garden  wall,  and,  like  Hassan, 
dropping  to  the  ground,  crept  towards  a  patch 
of  maize  lying  between  the  house  and  the 
river.  He  was  dressed  like  a  fellah,  with  the 
long  blue  yelek,  and  a  poor  wool  fez,  and 
round  the  fez  was  a  white  cloth,  as  it  were  to 
protect  his  mouth  from  the  night  air,  after  the 
manner  of  the  peasant. 

The  fires  of  the  enemy  were  dying  down, 
and  only  here  and  there  Arabs  gossiped  or 
drank  coffee  by  the  embers.  At  last  Wynd- 
ham  was  able  to  drop  into  the  narrow  channel, 
now  dry,  through  which,  when  the  sluice  was 
open  and  the  sakkia  turned,  the  water  flowed 
to  the  liouse.  All  went  well  till  he  was  with- 
in a  hundred  yards  of  the  wheel,  though  now 
and  again  he  could  hear  sentries  snoring  or 
talking  just  above  him.  Suddenly  he  heard 
brcjitliing  an  arm's  length  before  him,  then  a 
figure  raised  itself  and  a  head  turned  towards 
hifn.  The  Arab  had  been  asleep,  but  his  hand 
nui  to  his  knife  by  instinct — too  late,  for 
Wyiidhiun's  fingers  were  at  his  throat,  and  he 
had  ncillier  time  nor  cliance  to  cry  Allah!  be- 
fore tlie  breath  left  him. 

202 


THE   MAN  AT   THE   WHEEL 

Wyndham  crept  on.  The  sound  of  the  sak- 
kia  was  in  his  ears — the  long,  creaking,  crying 
song,  filhng  the  night.  And  now  there  arose 
the  Song  of  the  Sakkia  from  the  man  at  the 
wheel : 

"  Turn,  O  Sakkia,  turn  to  the  right,  and  turn  to  the  left  ; 
■    The  heron  feeds  by  the  water  side — shall  I  starve  in  my 
onion-fields ! 
Shall   the  Lord  of  the   World  withhold  his  tears  that 
water  the  land — 

Turn,  O  Sakkia  !  " 

,  .  .  The  hard  white  stars,  the  cold  blue  sky, 
the  far-off  Libyan  hills  in  a  gold  and  opal 
glow,  the  smell  of  the  desert,  the  deep  sicish  of 
the  Nile,  the  Song  of  the  Sakkia.  .  .  . 

Wyndham's  heart  beat  faster,  his  blood 
flowed  quicker,  he  strangled  a  sigh  in  his 
breast.  Here,  with  death  on  every  hand,  with 
immediate  and  fearful  peril  before  him,  out  of 
the  smell  of  the  desert  and  the  ghostly  glow  of 
the  Libyan  hills  there  came  a  memory — the 
memory  of  a  mistake  he  had  made  years  be- 
fore with  a  woman.  She  had  never  forgiven 
him  for  the  mistake — he  knew  it  at  last.  He 
knew  that  no  woman  could  ever  forgive  the 
blunder  he  had  made ;  not  a  blunder  of  love 
but  a  blunder  of  self-will  and  an  unmanly,  un- 
mannerly conceit.  It  had  nearly  wrecked  her 
life :  and  he  only  reahsed  it  now,  in  the  mo- 

203 


THE   ]\IAN  AT   THE   WHEEL 

ment  of  clear-seeing  which  comes  to  every 
being  once  in  a  hfetime.  Well,  it  was  some- 
thing to  have  seen  the  mi^itake  at  last. 

He  had  come  to  the  sluice-gate.  It  was 
impossible  to  open  it  without  the  fellah  on  the 
water-wheel  seeing  him. 

There  was  another  way.  He  crept  close 
and  closer  to  the  wheel.  The  breath  of  the 
blindfolded  buffalo  was  in  his  face,  he  drew 
himself  up  lightly  and  quickly  beside  the  buf- 
falo— lie  was  making  no  blunder  now. 

Suddenly  he  leapt  from  behind  the  buffalo 
upon  the  fellah  and  smothered  his  mouth  in 
the  wliite  cloth  he  had  brought.  There  was  a 
moment's  struggle,  then,  as  the  wheel  went 
slower  and  slower,  and  the  patient  buffalo 
stopped,  Wyndham  dropped  the  gagged,  but 
living,  fellali  into  a  trench  by  the  sakkia  and, 
calling  to  the  buffalo,  slid  over  swiftly,  opened 
tlic  sluice-gate  of  the  channel  which  fed  the 
house,  and  closed  that  leading  to  the  Arab 
encampment. 

Then  he  sat  down  where  the  fellah  had  sat, 
and  the  sakkia  drowned  its  mystic  music  over 
the  river,  the  desert  and  the  plain.  But  the 
buffalo  moved  slowly — the  fellah's  song  had 
been  a  spur  to  its  travel,  as  the  camel- driver's 
song  is  to  the  caravan  in  the  waste  of  sands. 
Wyndham  hesitated  an  instant,  then,  as  the 

204 


THE    MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

first  trickle  of  water  entered  tlie  garden  of  the 
house  where  his  Gippies  and  the  friendUes 
were,  his  voice  rose  in  the  Song  of  the  Sakkia : 

"  Turn,  O  Sakkia,  turn  to  the  right,  and  turn  to  the  left : 
Who  will  take  care  of  me,  if  my  father  dies  ? 
Who  will  give  me  water  to  drink,  and  the  cucumber 
vine  at  my  door- 
Turn,  O  Sakkia  !  " 

If  he  had  but  one  hour  longer  there  would 
be  enough  water  for  men  and  horses  for  days, 
twenty  jars  of  water  pouring  all  the  time  ! 

Now  and  again  a  figure  came  towards  the 
wheel,  but  not  close  enough  to  see  that  the 
one  sluice-gate  had  been  shut  and  the  other 
opened.  A  half  hour  passed,  an  hour,  and 
then  the  end  came. 

The  gagged  fellah  had  managed  to  free  his 
mouth,  and  though  his  feet  were  bound  also 
and  he  could  not  loose  them,  he  gave  a  loud 
call  for  help.  From  dying  fires  here  and 
there  Arab  sentries  sprang  to  their  feet  witli 
rifles  and  lances. 

Wyndham's  work  was  done.  He  leapt  from 
the  sakkia,  and  ran  towards  the  house.  Shot 
after  shot  was  fired  at  him,  lances  were  thrown, 
and  once  an  Arab  barred  his  way  suddenly. 
He  pistolled  him  and  ran  on.  A  lance  caught 
him  in  the  left  arm.  He  tore  it  out  and 
pushed  forward.    Stooping  once,  he  caught  up 

205 


THE   MAN   AT  THE   WHEEL 

a  sword  from  the  ground.  When  he  was 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  house,  four  Arabs  in- 
tercepted him.  He  shished  through,  then 
turned  with  his  pistol  and  fired  as  he  ran 
quickly  towards  the  now  open  gate.  He  was 
within  ten  yards  of  it,  and  had  fired  his  last 
shot,  when  a  bullet  crashed  through  his  jaw. 

A  dozen  Gippies  ran  out,  dragged  him  in, 
and  closed  the  gate. 

The  last  thing  Wyndham  did  before  he  died 
in  the  gray  of  dawn — and  this  is  told  of  him 
by  the  Gippies  themselv^es — was  to  cough  up 
the  bullet  from  his  throat,  and  spit  it  out  upon 
the  ground.  The  Gippies  thought  it  a  mirac- 
ulous feat  and  that  he  had  done  it  in  scorn 
of  the  Arab  foe. 

Before  another  sunrise  and  sunset  had  come, 
Wyndham  Bimbashi's  men  were  relieved  by 
the  garrison  of  Kerbat,  after  a  hard  fight. 

Tliere  are  Englishmen  in  Egypt  who  still 
speak  sliglitingly  of  ^Vyndham  Bimbashi,  but 
tlie  Britisli  officer  who  buried  him,  hushed  a 
gossi[)ing  dinner-party  a  few  months  ago  in 
Cairo  ])y  saying : 

"  Li^litly  tliey'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  liis  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
Hut  little  Iie'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  his  (iippies  have  laid  him." 

206 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   WHEEL 

And  he  did  not  apologise  for  paraphrasing 
the  famous  ballad.  He  has  shamed  Egypt 
at  last  into  a  sort  of  admiration  for  AVyndham 
Bimbashi :  to  the  deep  satisfaction  of  Hassan, 
the  Soudanese  boy,  who  received  his  fifty 
pounds,  and  to  this  day  wears  the  belt  which 
once  kept  him  in  the  narrow  path  of  duty. 


207 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 


"HEN  Donovan  Pasha  discov- 
ered the  facts  for  the  first 
time,  he  found  more  difficulty 
in  keeping  the  thing  to  himself 
than  he  had  ever  found  with 
any  other  matter  in  Egypt. 
He  had  imeartlied  one  of 
those  paradoxes,  which  make 
for  laughter — and  for  tears. 
It  gave  him  both ;  he  laughed 
till  he  cried.  Then  he  went 
to  the  Khedivial  Club  and  ordered  him- 
self four  courses,  a  pint  of  champagne  and  a 
glass  of  '48  port,  his  usual  dinner  being  one 
course,  double  portion,  and  a  pint  of  claret. 
As  he  sat  eating  he  kept  reading  a  letter  over 
and  over,  and  each  time  he  read  he  gi'inned — 
he  did  not  smile  like  a  well-behaved  man  of 
the  world,  he  did  not  giggle  like  a  well- 
veneered  Egyptian  back  from  Paris,  he  chuc- 
kled like  a   cabman,  responding  to  a  liberal 

208 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

fare  and  a  good  joke.  A  more  unconven- 
tional little  man  never  lived.  Simplicity  was 
his  very  life,  and  yet  he  had  a  gift  for  follow- 
ing the  sinuosities  of  the  Oriental  mind ;  he 
had  a  quality  almost  clairvoyant,  which  came, 
perhaps,  from  his  Irish  forbears.  The  cross- 
strain  of  English  blood  had  done  him  good 
too;  it  made  him  punctilious,  and  kept  his 
impulses  within  secure  bounds.  It  also  made 
him  very  polite  when  he  was  angry,  and  very 
angry  when  any  one  tried  to  impose  upon  him, 
or  flatter  him. 

The  letter  he  read  so  often  was  from  Kings- 
ley  Bey,  the  Englishman,  who,  coming  to 
Egypt  penniless,  and  leaving  estates  behind 
him  encumbered  beyond  release,  as  it  would 
seem,  had  made  a  fortune  and  a  name  in  a 
curious  way.  For  years  he  had  done  no  good 
for  himself,  trying  his  hand  at  many  things, 
— sugar,  salt,  cotton,  cattle,  but  always  just 
failing  to  succeed,  though  he  came  out  of  his 
enterprises  owing  no  one.  Yet  he  had  held  to 
his  belief  that  he  would  make  a  fortune,  and 
he  allowed  his  estates  to  become  still  more 
encumbered,  against  the  advice  of  his  solicitors, 
who  gi'ew  more  irritable  as  interest  increased 
and  rents  further  declined.  The  only  Eu- 
ropean in  Egypt  who  shared  his  own  belief 
in  himself  was  Dicky  Donovan.     Something 

209 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

in  the  unfailing  good-humour,  the  buoyant 
energy,  the  wide  imagination  of  the  man 
seized  I3icky,  warranted  the  conviction  that 
he  would  yet  make  a  success.  There  were 
reasons  why  sugar,  salt,  cotton,  cattle  and 
other  things  had  not  done  well.  Taxes,  the 
cot'vcc,  "  undue  influence  "  in  favour  of  Pashas 
who  could  put  his  water  on  their  land  without 
compensation,  or  unearthed  old  unpaid  mort- 
gages on  his  land,  or  absorbed  his  special  salt 
concession  in  the  Government  monopoly,  or 
suddenly  put  a  tax  on  all  horses  and  cattle 
not  of  native  breed; — all  these  and  various 
other  imposts,  exactions  or  interferences  engi- 
neered by  the  wily  mamour,  the  agent  of  the 
moufFetish,  or  the  intriguing  pasha,  killed  his 
efforts,  in  spite  of  labours  unbehev  able.  The 
\cnture  before  the  last  had  been  sugar,  and 
wlicn  he  arrived  in  Cairo,  having  seen  his 
fields  and  factories  absorbed  in  the  Khedive's 
domains,  he  had  but  one  ten  pounds  to  his 
name. 

lie  went  to  Dicky  Donovan  and  asked  the 
loan  of  a  thousand  pounds.  It  took  Dicky's 
breath  away.  His  own  banking  account  sel- 
dom saw  a  tliousand-deposit.  Dicky  told 
Kingslcy  he  hadn't  got  it.  Kingsley  asked 
him  to  get  it— he  had  credit,  could  borrow  it 
from  the   bank,  from   the   Khedive   himself  I 

210 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

The  proposal  was  audacious — Kingsley  could 
offer  no  security  worth  having.  His  enthusi- 
asm and  courage  were  so  infectious  however, 
though  his  ventures  had  been  so  fruitless,  that 
Dicky  laughed  in  his  face.  Kingsley's  man- 
ner then  suddenly  changed,  and  he  assured 
Dicky  that  he  would  receive  five  thousand 
pounds  for  the  thousand  within  a  year.  Now, 
Dicky  knew  that  Kingsley  never  made  a 
promise  to  any  one  that  he  did  not  fulfil.  He 
gave  Kingsley  the  thousand  pounds.  He  did 
more.  He  went  to  the  Khedive  with  Kings- 
ley's  whole  case.  He  spoke  as  he  had  seldom 
spoken,  and  he  secured  a  bond  from  Ismail, 
which  might  not  be  broken.  He  also  secured 
three  thousand  pounds  of  the  Khedive's  bor- 
rowings from  Europe,  on  Kingsley's  promise 
that  it  should  be  returned  fivefold. 

That  was  how  Kingsley  got  started  in  the 
world  again,  how  he  went  mining  in  the  des- 
ert afar,  where  pashas  and  mamours  could 
not  worry  him.  The  secret  of  his  success  was 
purely  Oriental.  He  became  a  slave-owner. 
He  built  up  a  city  of  the  desert  round  him. 
He  was  its  ruler.  Slavery  gave  him  steady 
untaxed  labour.  A  rifle-magazine  gave  him 
security  against  marauding  tribes,  his  cara- 
vans were  never  overpowered  ;  his  blacks  were 
his   own.     He  had  a  way  >vith   them;    they 

2H 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

thought  him  the  greatest  man  in  the  world. 
Now,  at  last,  he  was  rich  enough.  His  mines 
were  worked  out,  too,  and  the  market  was  not 
so  good ;  he  had  supplied  it  too  well.  Dicky's 
thousand  had  brought  him  five  thousand,  and 
Ismail's  three  thousand  had  become  fifteen 
thousand,  and  another  twenty  thousand  be- 
sides. For  once  the  Khedive  had  found  a 
kind  of  taxation,  of  which  he  got  the  whole 
proceeds,  not  divided  among  many  as  hereto- 
fore. He  got  it  all.  He  made  Kingsley  a 
Bey,  and  gave  him  immunity  from  all  other 
imposts  or  taxation.  Nothing  but  an  Egyp- 
tian army  could  have  removed  him  from  his 
desert  city. 

Now,  he  was  coming  back, — to-night  at  ten 
o'clock  he  would  appear  at  the  Khedivial  Club, 
the  first  time  in  seven  years.  But  this  was 
not  all.  He  was  coming  back  to  be  married 
as  soon  as  might  be. 

This  was  the  thing  which  convulsed  Dicky. 

Upon  the  Nile  at  Assiout  lived  a  young 
English  lady,  whose  life  was  devoted  to  agi- 
tation against  slavery  in  Egypt.  Perhaps  the 
Civil  War  in  America,  not  so  many  years  be- 
fore, had  fired  lier  spirit;  perliaps  it  was  pious 
enthusiasm  ;  perhaps  it  was  some  altruistic 
sentiment  in  her  which  must  find  expression; 
perhaps,  as  people  said,  she  had  had  a  love 

212 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

affair  in  England  which  had  turned  out  badly. 
At  any  rate  she  had  come  over  to  Egypt  with 
an  elderly  companion,  and,  after  a  short  stay 
at  the  Consulate,  had  begun  the  career  of 
the  evangel.  She  had  now  and  then  created 
international  difficulty,  and  Ismail,  tolerant 
enough,  had  been  tempted  to  compel  her  to 
leave  the  country,  but,  with  a  zeal  which  took 
on  an  aspect  of  self-opinionated  audacity,  she 
had  kept  on.  Perhaps  her  beauty  helped  her 
on  her  course — perhaps  the  fact  that  her  su- 
perb egotism  kept  her  from  being  timorous, 
made  her  career  possible.  In  any  case,  there 
she  was  at  Assiout,  and  there  she  had  been 
for  years,  and  no  accident  had  come  to  her; 
and,  during  the  three  months  she  was  at  Cairo 
every  year,  pleading  against  slavery  and  the 
corvee,  she  increased  steadily  the  respect  in 
which  she  was  held ;  but  she  was  considered 
mad  as  Gordon.  So  delighted  had  Ismail 
been  with  a  quiet,  personal  attack  she  made 
upon  him,  that  without  malice,  and  with  an 
obtuse  and  impulsive  kindness,  he  sent  her  the 
next  morning  a  young  Circassian  slave,  as  a 
mark  of  his  esteem,  begging  licr  through  the 
swelling  rhetoric  of  his  messenger  to  keep  the 
girl,  and  more  than  hinting  at  her  value.  It 
stupefied  her,  and  the  laughter  of  Cairo  added 
to  her  momentary  embarrassment ;  but  she 
15  213 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

kept  the  girl,  and  prepared  to  send  her  back  to 
her  people. 

The  girl  said  she  had  no  people,  and  would 
not  go;  she  would  stay  with  "my  lady" — she 
would  stay  for  ever  with  "  my  lady."  It  was 
confusing,  but  the  girl  stayed,  worshipping  the 
ground  "  my  lady  "  walked  on.  In  vain  "  my 
lady"  educated  her.  Out  of  hearing,  she 
proudly  told  whoever  would  listen  that  she 
was  "  my  lady's  slave."  It  was  an  Egyptian 
paradox ;  it  was  in  line  with  everything  else 
in  the  country,  part  of  the  moral  opera  honjf'c. 

In  due  course,  the  lady  came  to  hear  of  the 
English  slave-owner,  who  ruled  the  desert  city, 
and  was  making  a  gi-eat  fortune  out  of  the 
labours  of  his  slaves.  The  desert  Arabs  who 
came  down  the  long  caravan  road,  white  with 
bleached  bones,  to  Assiout,  told  her  he  had  a 
thousand  slaves.  Against  this  Englishman 
her  anger  was  great.  She  unceasingly  con- 
demned him,  and  whenever  she  met  Dicky 
I3onovan  she  delivered  her  attack  with  deli- 
cate violence.  Did  Dicky  know  him  ?  Why 
did  not  he,  in  favour  with  Ismail,  and  with 
great  inHiience,  stop  this  dreadful  and  humil- 
iating business  ?  It  was  a  disgrace  to  the 
Enghsli  name.  How  could  we  preach  free- 
dom and  a  higher  civilisation  to  the  Egyptians, 
while  an    Englislunan    enriched   himself  and 

214 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

ruled  a  province  by  slavery  ?  Dicky's  inva- 
riable reply  was  that  we  couldn't,  and  that 
things  weren't  moving  very  much  towards  a 
higher  civilisation  in  Egypt.  But  lie  asked 
her  if  she  ever  heard  of  a  slave  running  away 
from  Kingsley  Bey,  or  had  she  ever  heard  of  a 
case  of  cruelty  on  his  part?  Her  reply  was 
that  he  had  given  slaves  the  kourbash,  and  had 
even  shot  them.  Dicky  thereupon  suggested 
that  Kingsley  Bey  was  a  government,  and 
that  the  kourbash  was  not  yet  abolished  in  the 
English  navy,  for  instance ;  also  that  men  had 
to  be  shot  sometimes. 

At  last  she  had  made  a  direct  appeal  to 
Kingsley  Bey.  She  sent  an  embassy  to  him 
— only  Dicky  prevented  her  from  going  her- 
self; he  said  he  would  have  her  deported 
straightway,  if  she  attempted  it.  She  was  not 
in  such  deadly  earnest  that  she  did  not  know 
he  would  keep  his  word,  and  that  the  Consul- 
ate could  not  help  her — would  have  no  time 
to  do  so.  So,  she  confined  herself  to  an  elab- 
orate letter,  written  in  admirable  English  and 
inspired  by  most  noble  sentiments.  The  beau- 
ty that  was  in  her  face  was  in  her  letter  in 
even  a  gi-eater  degree.  It  was  very  adroit, 
too,  very  ably  argued,  and  the  moral  appeal 
was  delicate  and  touching,  put  with  an  elo- 
quence at  once  direct  and  arresting.     The  in- 

215 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

vocation  with  which  the  letter  ended  was,  as 
Kingsley  Bey  afterward  put  it,  "a  pitch  of 
poetry  and  humanity  never  reached  except  by 
a  Wagner  opera." 

Kingsley  Bey's  response  to  the  appeal  was 
a  letter  to  the  lady,  brought  by  a  sarraf,  a 
mainour  and  six  slaves,  beautifully  mounted 
and  armed,  saying  that  he  had  been  deeply 
moved  by  her  appeal,  and  as  a  proof  of  the 
effect  of  her  letter,  she  might  free  the  six 
slaves  of  his  embassy.  This  she  straightway 
did  joyfully,  and  when  they  said  they  wished 
to  go  to  Cairo,  she  saw  them  and  their 
horses  off  on  the  boat  with  gladness,  and  she 
shook  them  each  by  the  hand  and  prayed 
Heaven  in  their  language  to  give  them  long 
plumes  of  life  and  happiness.  Arrived  at 
Cairo  these  freemen  of  Assiout  did  as  they 
had  been  ordered  by  Kingsley  :  found  Don- 
ovan Pasha,  delivered  a  certain  letter  to  him, 
and  tlicn  proceeded,  also  as  they  had  been  or- 
dered, to  a  certain  place  in  the  city,  even  to 
Ismail's  stables,  to  await  their  master's  com- 
ing. 

'i'his  letter  was  now  in  Dicky's  hand,  and 
his  inirtli  was  caused  by  the  statement  that 
Kingsley  Bey  luid  declared  tliat  he  was  com- 
ing to  marry  "  my  lady  " — slie  really  was  "  my 
hidy,"  the  l^ady  May  Ilarley ;    that  lie  was 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

coming  by  a  different  route  from  "  his  nig- 
gers," and  would  be  there  the  same  day. 
Dicky  would  find  him  at  ten  o'clock  at  the 
Khedivial  Club. 

"  My  lady  "  hated  slavery — and  unconscious- 
ly she  kept  a  slave;  she  regarded  Kingsley 
Bey  as  an  enemy  to  civilisation  and  to  Egypt, 
she  detested  him  as  strongly  as  an  idealistic 
nature  could  and  should — and  he  had  set  out 
to  marry  her,  the  woman  who  had  bitterly  ar- 
raigned him  at  the  bar  of  her  judgment.  All 
this  play  was  in  Dicky's  hands  for  himself  to 
enjoy,  in  a  perfect  dress  rehearsal  ere  ever  one 
of  the  Cairene  public  or  the  English  world 
could  pay  for  admission  and  take  their  seats. 
Dicky  had  in  more  senses  than  one  got  his 
money's  worth  out  of  Kingsley  Bey.  He 
wished  he  might  let  the  Khedive  into  the  se- 
cret at  once,  for  he  had  an  opinion  of  Ismail's 
sense  of  humour;  had  he  not  said  that  very 
day  in  the  presence  of  the  French  Consul, 
"  Shut  the  window,  quick !  If  the  consul 
sneezes,  France  will  demand  compensation ! " 
But  Dicky  was  satisfied  that  things  should  be 
as  they  were.  He  looked  at  the  clock — it  was 
five  minutes  to  ten.  He  rose  from  the  table, 
and  went  to  the  smoking-room.  In  vain  it 
was  souglit  to  draw  him  into  the  friendly  cir- 
cles of  gossiping  idlers  and  officials.     He  took 

217 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

a  chiiir  at  the  very  end  of  tlie  room  and  oppo- 
site the  door,  and  waited,  watching. 
•  Precisely  at  ten  the  door  opened  and  a  tall, 
thin,  loose-knit  figure  entered.  He  glanced 
quickly  round,  saw  Dicky,  and  swung  down 
the  room,  nodding  to  men  who  sprang  to  their 
feet  to  greet  him.  Some  of  the  Egyptians 
looked  darkly  at  him,  but  he  smiled  all  round, 
caught  at  one  or  two  hands  thrust  out  to  him, 
said,  "  Business — business  first  I "  in  a  deep 
bass  voice,  and,  hastening  3n,  seized  both  of 
Dicky's  hands  in  his,  then  his  shoulders,  and 
almost  roared :  "  Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
it  ?  Isn't  it  all  right  ?  Am  I,  or  am  I  not, 
Dicky  Pasha? " 

"You  very  much  are,"  answered  Dicky, 
thrust  a  cigar  at  him,  and  set  him  down  in  the 
deepest  chair  he  could  find.  He  sprawled 
wide,  and  lighted  his  cigar,  then  lay  back  and 
looked  down  his  long  nose  at  his  friend. 

"  I  mean  it,  too,"  he  said  after  a  minute,  and 
reached  for  a  glass  of  water  the  waiter  brought. 
"No,  thanks,  no  whiskey — never  touch  it — 
good  example  to  the  slaves  ! "  He  laughed 
long  and  low,  and  looked  at  Dicky  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  '*  Good-looking  lot  I  sent 
you,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oostcrs,  every  one  of  'em.  15utter  wouldn't 
melt  in  their  mouths.     I  learnt  their  grin,  it 

218 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

suits  my  style  of  beauty."  Dicky  fitted  the 
action  to  the  word. 

"  Y'^ou'U  start  with  me  in  the  morning  to 
Assiout  ?  " 

"  I  cmi  start,  but  Hfe  and  time  are  short." 

"  Y'ou  think  I  can't  and  won't  marry  her? " 

"  This  isn't  the  day  of  Lochinvar." 

"  This  is  the  day  of  Kingsley  Bey,  Dicky 
Pasha." 

Dicky  frowned.  He  had  a  rare  and  fine 
sense  where  women  were  concerned,  were  they 
absent  or  present.  "  How  very  artless — and 
in  so  short  a  time,  too  ! "  he  said  tartly. 

Kingsley  laughed  quietly.  "Art  is  long, 
but  tempers  are  short ! "  he  retorted. 

Dicky  liked  a  Roland  for  his  Oliver.  "  It's 
good  to  see  you  back  again,"  he  said,  chang- 
ing the  subject.  "  How  long  do  you  mean  to 
stay  ? " 

"Here?" 

Dicky  nodded. 

"  Till  I'm  married." 

Dicky  became  very  quiet,  a  little  formal,  and 
liis  voice  took  on  a  curious  smoothness,  through 
which  sharp  suggestion  pierced. 

"  So  long  ? — Enter  our  Kingsley  Bey  into 
the  undergi-ound  Levantine  world." 

This  was  biting  enough.  To  be  swallowed 
up  by  Cairo  life  and  all  that  it  involves,  was 

219 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

no  fate  to  suggest  to  an  Englishman,  whose 
opinion  of  the  Levantine  needs  no  defining. 
"  Try  again,  Dicky,"  said  Kingsley,  refusing 
to  be  drawn.  "  This  is  not  one  huge  joke,  or 
one  vast  impertinence,  so  far  as  the  lady  is 
concerned.  I've  come  back  —  b-a-c-k  "  (he 
spelled  the  word  out),  "  with  all  that  it  in- 
volves.    I've  come  hack,  Dicky." 

He  quieted  all  at  once,  and  leaned  over  to- 
wards his  friend.  "  You  know  tlie  fight  I've 
had.  You  know  the  life  I've  lived  in  Egypt. 
You  know  what  I  left  behind  me  in  England 
— nearly  all.  You've  seen  the  white  man 
work.  You've  seen  the  black  oostcr  save  him. 
You've  seen  the  ten-times-a-failure  pull  out. 
Have  I  played  the  game?  Have  I  acted 
squarely?  Have  I  given  kindness  for  kind- 
ness, blow  for  blow?  Have  I  treated  my 
slaves  like  human  beings  ?  Have  I — have  I 
won  my  way  back  to  life — life?"  He  spread 
out  a  hand  with  a  little  grasping  motion. 
"  Have  I  saved  the  old  stand  off  there  in 
Cumboi'land  by  the  sea,  where  you  can  see  the 
snow  on  Skaw  Fell  ?  Have  I  ?  Do  you  won- 
der that  I  laugli?  Ye  gods  and  little  fishes  ! 
I'v^e  had  to  wear  a  long  face  years  enough — 
seven  liard  years,  seven  fearful  years,  when  I 
iniglit  be  murdered  by  a  slave,  and  I  and  my 
slaves  might  be  murdered  by  some  stray  bri- 

220 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

gade,  under  some  general  of  Ismail's,  working 
without  orders,  without  orders,  of  course — oh, 
very  much  of  course  !  Why  shouldn't  I  play 
the  boy  to-day,  little  Dicky  Donovan  ?  I  am 
a  JMahomedan  come  Christian  again.  I  am  a 
navvy  again  come  gentleman.  I  am  an  Arab 
come  Englishman  once  more.  I  am  an  out- 
cast come  home.  I  am  a  dead  man  come  to 
hfe." 

Dicky  leaned  over  and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
knee.  "  You  are  a  credit  to  Cumberland,"  he 
said.  "  No  other  man  could  have  done  it.  I 
won't  ask  any  more  questions.  Anything  you 
want  of  me,  I  am  with  you,  to  do,  or  say,  or 
be." 

"  Good.  I  want  you  to  go  to  Assiout  to- 
morrow." 

'*Will  you  see  Ismail  first?  It  might  be 
safer — good  policy." 

"  I  will  see  ^ly  Lady  first.  .  .  .  Trust  me. 
I  know  what  I'm  doing.  You  will  laugh 
as  I  do."  Laughter  broke  from  his  lips.  It 
was  as  though  his  heart  was  ten  years  old. 
Dicky's  eyes  moistened.  He  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it — such  happiness,  such  boyish 
confidence.  And  what  had  not  this  man  ex- 
perienced !  How  had  he  drunk  misfortune  to 
the  dregs !  What  unbelievable  optimism  had 
been  his !     How  had  he  been  at  once  hard  and 

221 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

kind,  tyrannical  and  human,  defiant  and  peace- 
ful, daring  yet  submissive,  fierce  yet  just ! 
And  now,  here,  with  so  much  done,  with  a 
great  fortune  and  great  power,  a  very  boy,  he 
was  planning  to  win  the  heart  of,  and  marry, 
his  avowed  foe,  the  woman  who  had  con- 
demned him  without  stint. 

II 

On  her  wide  verandah,  a  stone's-throw  from 
the  banks  of  the  Nile,  JNIy  Lady  sat  pen  in 
hand  and  paper-pad  upon  her  knee.  She  had 
written  steadily  for  an  hour,  and  now  she 
raised  her  head  to  look  out  on  the  swift  flow- 
ing, muddy  water,  where  broad '  khiassas 
floated  down  the  stream,  laden  with  bersim; 
where  feluccas  covered  the  river,  bearing 
natives  and  donkeys  ;  where  faithful  Moslems 
performed  their  ablutions,  and  other  faithful 
Moslems,  their  sandals  laid  aside,  said  their 
prayers  with  their  faces  towards  INIecca,  oblivi- 
ous of  all  around ;  where  blue-robed  women 
filled  their  goolahs  with  water,  and  bore  them 
away,  steady  and  stately;  wliere  a  gang  of 
conscripts,  chained  ankle  to  ankle,  followed  by 
a  crowd  of  weeping  and  wailing  women,  were 
being  driven  to  the  anchorage  of  the  stern- 
wheclcd   transport-steamer.     All  these  sights 

222 


A  TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

she  had  seen  how  many  hundred  times !  To 
her  it  was  all  slavery.  The  laden  khiassas 
represented  the  fruits  of  enforced  labour;  the 
ablutions  and  prayers  were  but  signs  of  sub- 
mission to  the  tyranny  of  a  religion  designed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  few  at  the  expense  of  the 
many,  a  creed  and  code  of  gross  selfishness — 
were  not  women  only  admitted  to  Heaven  by 
the  intercession  of  their  husbands  and  after 
unceasing  prayer  ?  Whether  beasts  of  bur- 
den, the  girl  with  the  goolah,  women  in  the 
harem,  or  servants  of  pleasure,  they  were  all 
in  the  bonds  of  slavery,  and  the  land  was  in 
moral  darkness.     So  it  seemed  to  her. 

How  many  times  had  she  written  these 
things  in  different  forms  and  to  different  peo- 
ple— so  often,  too  often,  to  the  British  Consul 
at  Cairo,  whose  patience  waned.  At  first,  the 
seizure  of  conscripts,  ^Wth  all  that  it  involved, 
had  excited  her  greatly.  It  had  required  all 
her  common  sense  to  prevent  her,  then  and 
there,  protesting,  pleading,  with  the  kavass, 
who  did  the  duty  of  Ismail's  Sidar.  She  had 
confined  herself,  however,  to  asking  for  per- 
mission to  give  the  men  cigarettes  and  slip- 
pers, dates  and  bread,  and  bags  of  lentils  for 
soup.  Even  this  was  not  unaccompanied  by 
danger,  for  the  Mohammedan  mind  could  not 
at  first  tolerate  the  idea  of  a  lady  going  un- 

223 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

veiled ;  only  fellah  women,  domestic  cattle, 
bared  their  faces  to  the  world.  The  con- 
scripts, too,  going  to  their  death — for  how  few 
of  them  ever  returned  ? — leaving  beliind  all 
hope,  all  freedom,  passing  to  starvation  and 
cruelty,  at  last  to  be  cut  down  by  the  Arab, 
or  left  dying  of  illness  in  the  desert,  they  took 
her  gifts  with  sullen  faces.  Her  beautiful 
freedom  was  in  such  contrast  to  their  torture, 
slavery  of  a  direful  kind.  But  as  again  and 
again  the  kavasses  came  and  opened  midnight 
doors  and  snatched  away  the  young  men,  her 
influence  had  grown  so  fast,  that  her  presence 
brought  comfort,  and  she  helped  to  assuage 
the  grief  of  the  wailing  women.  She  even 
urged  upon  them  that  philosopliy  of  their 
own,  which  said  "  3Ialaish  "  to  all  things, — the 
"  It  is  no  matter,"  of  the  fated  Hamlet.  In 
time  she  began  to  be  grateful  that  an  apathet- 
ic resignation,  akin  to  the  quiet  of  despair, 
was  the  possession  of  their  race.  She  was  far 
from  aware  that  something  in  their  life,  of 
their  philosophy,  was  affecting  her  under- 
standing. She  had  a  strong  brain  and  a 
stronger  will,  but  she  had  a  capacity  for  feel- 
ing greater  still,  and  this  gave  her  imagina- 
tion, temperament,  and — though  it  would 
have  shocked  her  to  know  it — a  certain  cre- 
dulity, easily  transmutable    into  superstition. 

224 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

Yet,  as  her  sympathies  were,  to  some  extent, 
rationahsed  by  stern  fact  and  everlasting  cus- 
tom, her  opposition  to  some  things  became 
more  active  and  more  fervid. 

Looking  into  the  distance,  she  saw  two  or 
three  hundred  men  at  work  on  a  canal,  drain- 
ing the  property  of  Selamhk  Pasha,  whose 
tyrannies,  robberies  and  intrigues  were  famil- 
iar to  all  Egypt,  whose  palaces  were  almost  as 
many  as  those  of  the  notorious  JNIoufFetish. 
These  men  she  saw  now  working  in  the  dread 
corvee,  had  been  forced  from  their  homes  by  a 
counterfeit  Khedivial  order.  They  had  been 
compelled  to  bring  their  own  tools,  and  to 
feed  and  clothe  and  house  themselves,  without 
pay  or  reward,  having  left  behind  them  their 
own  fields  untilled,  their  own  dourha  un- 
reaped,  their  date-palms,  which  the  tax-gath- 
erer confiscated.  Many  and  many  a  time — 
unless  she  was  prevented,  and  this  at  first  had 
been  often — she  had  sent  food  and  blankets  to 
these  poor  creatures  who,  their  day's  work 
done,  prayed  to  God  as  became  good  JNIo- 
hammedans,  and,  without  covering,  stretched 
themselves  out  on  the  bare  ground  to  sleep. 

It  suggested  that  other  slavery,  which  did 
not  hide  itself  under  the  forms  of  conscription 
and  corvee.  It  was  on  this  slavery  her  mind 
had  been  concentrated,  and  against  it  she  had 

225 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

turned  her  energies  and  her  hfe.  As  she  now 
sat,  pen  in  hand,  the  thought  of  how  httle  she 
had  done,  how  futile  had  been  all  her  crusade, 
came  to  her.  Y^et  there  was,  too,  a  look  of 
triumph  in  her  eyes.  Until  three  days  ago 
she  had  seen  little  result  from  her  labours. 
Then  had  come  a  promise  of  better  things. 
From  the  Englishman,  against  whom  she  had 
inveighed,  had  been  sent  an  olive  branch,  a 
token — of  conversion?  Had  he  not  sent  six 
slaves  for  her  to  free,  and  had  she  not  freed 
them?  That  was  a  step.  She  pictured  to 
herself  this  harsh  expatriated  adventurer,  this 
desert  ruler,  this  slave-holder, — had  he  been  a 
slave-dealer  she  could  herself  have  gladly  been 
his  executioner — surrounded  by  his  black  serfs, 
receiving  her  letter.  In  her  mind's  eye  she 
saw  his  face  flush  as  he  read  her  burning 
phrases,  then  turn  a  little  pale,  then  grow 
stern. 

She  saw  him,  after  a  sleepless  night,  haunted 
by  her  warnings,  her  appeal  to  his  English 
manhood.  She  saw  him  rise,  meditative  and 
relenting,  and  send  forthwith  these  slaves  for 
her  to  free.  Her  eye  glistened  again,  as  it  had 
slionc  while  she  had  written  of  this  thing  to 
tlic  liritish  Consul  at  Cairo,  to  Jier  fatlicr  in 
Knglaiul,  wlio  approved  of  licr  sympathies  and 
lamented  licr  actions.     Had  her  crusade  been 

226 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

altogether  fruitless,  she  asked  herself.  Ismail's 
freed  Circassian  was  in  her  household,  being 
educated  like  an  English  girl,  lifted  out  of  her 
former  degradation,  made  to  understand  "  a 
higher  life  "  ;  and  yesterday  she  had  sent  away 
six  liberated  slaves,  with  a  gold-piece  each,  as 
a  gift  from  a  free  woman  to  free  men.  It 
seemed  to  her  for  a  moment  now,  as  she  sat 
musing  and  looking,  that  her  thirty  years  of 
life  had  not  been — rather,  might  not  be — in 
vain. 

There  was  one  other  letter  she  would  write 
— to  Donovan  Pasha,  who  had  not  been  ar- 
dent in  her  cause,  yet  who  might  have  done 
so  much  through  his  influence  with  Ismail, 
who,  it  was  said,  liked  him  better  than  any 
Englishman  he  had  known,  save  Gordon. 
True,  Donovan  Pasha  had  steadily  worked  for 
the  reduction  of  the  corvee,  and  had,  in  the 
name  of  the  Khedive,  steadily  reduced  private 
corvee,  but  he  had  never  set  his  face  against 
slavery,  save  to  see  that  no  shue-dealing  was 
permitted  below  Assouan.  Yet,  with  her 
own  eyes  slie  had  seen  Abyssinian  slaves  sold 
in  the  market-place  of  Assiout.  True,  when 
she  appealed  to  him,  Donovan  l*asha  had  seen 
to  it  that  the  slave-dealers  were  severely  pun- 
ished, but  the  fact  remained  that  he  was  un- 
sympathetic on  the  large   issue.     AVhen  ap- 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

pealed  to,  the  British  Consul  had  petulantly 
told  her  that  Donovan  Pasha  was  doint^  more 
important  work.  Yet  she  could  only  think  of 
England  as  the  engine  of  civilisation,  as  an 
evangelising  power,  as  the  John  the  Baptist  of 
the  nations — a  country  with  a  mission.  For 
so  beautiful  a  w^oman,  of  so  worldly  a  stock,  of 
a  society  so  in  front  of  things,  she  had  some 
Philistine  notions,  some  quite  middle- class 
ideals.  It  was  like  a  duchess  taking  to  Exe- 
ter Hall ;  but  few  duchesses  so  afflicted  had 
been  so  beautiful  and  so  young,  so  much  of 
the  worldly  world — her  father  was  high  in 
the  household  of  an  illustrious  person.  .  .  . 
If  she  could  but  make  any  headway  against 
slavery — she  had  as  disciples  ten  ^Vrmenian 
pashas,  several  wealthy  Copts,  a  number  of 
Arab  sheikhs,  and  three  Egyptian  princes, 
sympathetic  rather  than  active- — perhaps, 
through  her  father,  she  might  be  able  to  move 
the  illustrious  person,  and  so,  in  time,  the 
Government  of  England. 

It  was  a  delightful  dream — tlie  best  she  had 
imagined  for  many  a  day.  Slie  was  roused 
from  it  by  the  scream  of  a  Avhistle,  and  the 
hooncJi-hoonch  of  a  stern-whccl  steamer.  A 
(iovcrnmcnt  boat  was  hastening  into  the 
bank,  almost  opposite  her  liousc.  Slic  picked 
up  the  field-glass  from  the  window-sill  behind 

228 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

her,  and  swept  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  There 
were  two  figures  in  Enghsh  dress,  though  one 
wore  the  tarboosh.  The  figure  shorter  and 
smaller  than  the  other  she  recognized.  This 
was  Donovan  Pasha.  She  need  not  write  her 
letter  to  him,  then.  He  would  be  sure  to 
visit  her.  Disapprove  of  him  as  she  did  from 
one  standpoint,  he  always  excited  in  her  feel- 
ings of  home-sickness,  of  an  old  life,  full  of  in- 
terests— music,  drama,  art,  politics,  diplomacy, 
the  court,  the  hunting-field,  the  quiet  house- 
party.  He  troubled  her  in  a  way  too,  for  his 
sane  certainty,  set  against  her  aspiring  credu- 
lity, arrested,  even  commanded,  her  some- 
times. 

Instinctively,  she  put  out  her  hand  to  gather 
in  flying  threads  of  hair,  she  felt  at  the  pearl 
fastening  of  her  collar,  she  looked  at  her  brown 
shoes  and  her  dress,  and  was  satisfied.  She 
was  spotless.  And  never  had  her  face  shone 
—really  shone — to  such  advantage.  It  had 
not  now  the  brilliant  colours  of  the  first  years. 
The  climate,  her  work  in  hospital  building,  her 
labours  against  slavery,  had  touched  her  with 
a  little  whiteness.  She  was  none  the  less  good 
to  see. 

Who  was  this  striding  along  with  Donovan 
Pasha,  straight  towards  her  house  ?     No  one 
she  had  ever  seen  in  Egypt,  and  yet  in  man- 
16  229 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

ner  like  some  one  she  had  seen  before — a  long 
time  before.  Her  mind  flashed  back  through 
the  years  to  the  time  when  she  was  a  girl,  and 
vistcd  old  friends  of  her  father  in  a  castle  look- 
ing towards  Skaw  Fell,  above  the  long  valley 
of  the  Nidd.  A  kind  of  mist  came  before  her 
eyes  now. 

AN'hen  she  really  saw  again,  they  were  at  the 
steps  of  the  verandah,  and  Donovan  Pasha's 
voice  was  greeting  her.  Then,  as  without  a 
word,  but  with  a  welcoming  smile,  she  shook 
hands  with  Dicky  her  look  was  held,  first  by  a 
blank  arrest  of  memory,  then  by  surprise. 

Dicky  turned  for  his  office  of  introduction 
but  was  stayed  by  the  look  of  amusement  in 
his  friend's  face,  and  by  the  amazed  recogni- 
tion in  that  of  My  Lady.  He  stepped  back 
with  an  exclamation,  partly  of  chagrin.  He 
saw  that  this  recognition  was  no  coincidence, 
so  far  as  tlie  man  was  concerned,  though  the 
woman  had  been  surprised  in  a  double  sense. 
He  resented  the  fact  tliat  Kingsley  Bey  had 
kept  this  from  him — he  had  the  weakness  of 
small-staturcd  men  and  of  diplomatic  people 
who  have  reputations  for  knowing  and  doing. 
The  man,  all  smiling,  held  out  his  hand,  and 
his  look  was  qui/zically  humourous  as  he  said: 

"  \'ou  scarcely  looked  to  sec  me  here,  T^ady 
May  ? " 

230 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

Her  voice  trembled  with  pleasure.  '  *  No,  of 
course.  AVhen  did  you  come,  Lord  Selden  ? 
.  .  .  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 

That  high  green  terrace  of  Cumberland,  the 
mist  on  Skaw  Fell,  the  sun  out  ov  er  the  sea, 
they  Avere  in  her  eyes.  So  much  water  had 
gone  under  the  bridges  since  ! 

"I  was  such  a  young  girl  then — in  short 
frocks — it  was  a  long  time  ago,  I  fear,"  slie 
added,  as  if  in  continuation  of  the  thought 
flashing  through  her  mind.  "  Let  me  see," 
she  went  on  fearlessly ;  "  I  am  thirty  ;  that 
was  thirteen  years  ago." 

"  I  am  thirty-seven,  and  still  it  is  thirteen 
years  ago." 

"  Y"ou  look  older,  when  you  don't  smile," 
she  added,  and  glanced  at  his  gi-ay  hair. 

He  laughed  now.  She  was  far,  far  franker 
than  she  was  those  many  years  ago,  and  it 
was  very  agreeable  and  refreshing.  "  Dono- 
van, there,  reproved  me  last  night  for  frivol- 
ity," he  said. 

"  If  Donovan  Pasha  has  become  grave,  then 
there  is  hope  for  Egypt,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Dicky  with  a  new  brightness. 

"  When  there's  hope  for  Egypt,  I'll  have 
lost  my  situation,  and  there'll  be  reason  for 
drawing  a  long  face,"  said  Dicky,  and  got  the 
two  at  such  an  angle  that  lie    could  watch 

231 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

them  to  advantage.  "  I  thrive  while  it's  op^r-a 
boiiffc.  Give  us  the  legitimate  drama,  and  I 
go  with  Ismail." 

The  lady  shrank  a  little.  "  If  it  weren't 
you,  Donovan  Pasha,  I  should  say  that,  as- 
sociated with  Ismail,  as  you  are,  you  are  as 
criminal  as  he." 

*'  What  is  crime  in  one  country,  is  virtue  in 
anotlier,"  answered  Dicky.  "  I  clamp  the 
wheel  sometimes  to  keep  it  from  spinning  too 
fast.  That's  my  only  duty.  I  am  neither 
Don  Quixote  nor  Alexander  Imperator." 

She  thought  he  was  referring  obliquely  to 
the  corvee  and  the  other  thing  in  which  her 
life-work  was  involved.  She  became  severe. 
"  It  is  compromising  with  evil,"  she  said. 

"  No.  It's  getting  a  breakfast  roll  instead 
of  the  whole  bakery,"  he  answered. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing to  Kingsley. 

"  I  think  tliere's  one  man  in  Egypt,  who 
keeps  the  boiler  from  bursting,"  he  answered. 

"  Oh,  don't  think  I  undervalue  his  excel- 
lency," slie  said  with  a  little  laugh.  "  It  is 
because  he  is  strong,  because  he  matters  so 
much,  til  at  one  feels  he  could  do  more.  Is- 
mail thinks  tliere  is  no  one  like  him  in  the 
work!." 

"  Except  Gordon,"  interrupted  Kingsley. 
232 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"  Except  Gordon,  of  course ;  only  Gordon 
isn't  in  Egypt.  And  he  would  do  no  good  in 
Egypt.  The  officials  would  block  his  way. 
It  is  only  in  the  Soudan  that  he  could  have  a 
free  hand,  be  of  real  use.  There,  a  man,  a  real 
man,  like  Gordon,  could  show  the  world  how 
civilisation  can  be  accepted  by  desert  races, 
despite  a  crude  and  cruel  religion  and  low 
standards  of  morality." 

"  All  races  have  their  social  codes — what 
they  call  civilisation,"  rejoined  Kingsley.  "  It 
takes  a  long  time  to  get  custom  out  of  the 
blood,  especially  when  it  is  part  of  the  religion. 
I'm  afraid  that  expediency  isn't  the  motto  of 
those  who  try  to  civilise  the  Orient  and  the 
East." 

"  I  believe  in  struggling  openly  for  princi- 
ple," she  observed  a  little  acidly. 

"  Have  you  succeeded  ? "  he  asked,  trying 
to  keep  his  gravity.  "  How  about  your  own 
household,  for  instance  ?  Have  you  christian- 
ised and  civilised  your  people — your  niggers, 
and  the  others  ?  " 

She  flushed  indignantly,  but  held  herself  in 
control.  She  rang  a  bell.  "  I  have  no  '  nig- 
gers,' "  she  answered  quietly.  "  I  have  some 
Berberine  servants,  two  fellah  boatmen,  an 
Egyptian  gardener,  an  Arab  cook,  and  a  Circas- 
sian maid.    They  are,  I  think,  devoted  to  me." 

233 


A  TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

A  Berberine  serv^ant  appeared.  "  Tea,  Ma- 
hommed,"  she  said.  "And  tell  Madame  that 
Donovan  Pasha  is  here.  My  cousin  admires 
his  excellency  so  much,"  she  added  to  Kings- 
ley,  laughing.  "  I  have  never  had  any  real 
trouble  with  them,"  she  continued  with  a  little 
gesture  of  pride  towards  the  disappearing  Ber- 
berine. 

"  There  was  the  Armenian,"  put  in  Dicky 
slyly;  "and  the  Copt  sarraf.  They  were  no 
credit  to  their  Christian  religion,  were  they  ?  " 

"  That  was  not  the  fault  of  the  religion,  but 
of  the  generations  of  oppression — they  lie  as  a 
child  lies,  to  escape  consequences.  Had  they 
not  been  oppressed  they  would  have  been  good 
Christians  in  practice  as  in  precept." 

"  They  don't  steal  as  a  child  steals,"  laughed 
Dicky.  "  Armenians  are  Oriental  through 
and  through.  They  no  more  understand  the 
('hristian  religion,  than  the  Soudanese  under- 
stand freedom."  , 

He  touched  the  right  note  this  time.  Kings- 
Icy  Hashed  a  half-startled,  half-humourous  look 
at  liim ;  the  face  of  the  lady  became  set,  her 
manner  delicately  frigid.  She  was  about  to 
make  a  quiet,  severe  reply,  but  something 
overcame  her,  and  her  eyes,  her  fiice,  sud- 
denly glowed.  She  leaned  forward,  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  on  her  knees — Kingsley  could 

234 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

not  but  note  how  beautiful  and  brown  they 
were,  capable,  handsome,  confident  hands — 
and,  in  a  voice  thrilling  with  feehng,  said : 

"  What  is  there  in  the  life  here  that  gets 
into  the  eyes  of  Europeans  and  Winds  them? 
The  United  States  spent  scores  of  thousands 
of  lives  to  free  the  African  slave.  England 
paid  millions,  and  sacrificed  ministries  and 
men,  to  free  the  slave;  and  in  England,  j^ou 
— you,  Donovan  Pasha,  and  men  like  you, 
would  be  in  the  van  against  slavery.  Y^et 
here,  where  England  has  more  influence  than 
any  other  nation " 

"  More  power,  not  influence,"  Dicky  inter- 
rupted smiling. 

' '  Here,  you  endure,  you  encourage,  you 
approve  of  it.  Here,  an  Englishman  rules  a 
city  of  slaves  in  the  desert  and  grows  rich  out 
of  their  labour.  What  can  we  say  to  the  rest 
of  the  world,  while  out  there  in  the  desert  " — 
her  eyes  swept  over  the  gray  and  violet  hills — 
' '  that  man,  Kingsley  Bey,  sets  at  defiance  his 
race,  his  country,  civilisation,  all  those  things 
in  which  he  was  educated.  Egypt  will  not 
beheve  in  Enghsh  civihsation,  Europe  will  not 
believe  in  her  humanity  and  honesty,  so  long 
as  he  pursues  his  wicked  course." 

She  turned  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
and  in  silence  began  to  pour  the  tea  the  ser- 

235 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

vant  had  brought,  with  a  message  that  JNIa- 
dame  had  a  headache.  Kingsley  Bey  was 
about  to  speak— it  was  so  unfair  to  hsten,  and 
she  would  forgive  this  no  more  readily  than 
she  would  forgive  slavery.  Dicky  intervened, 
liowever. 

"  He  isn't  so  black  as  he's  painted,  person- 
ally. He's  a  rash,  inflammable  sort  of  fellow, 
who  has  a  way  with  the  native — treats  him 
well,  too,  I  believe.  Very  flamboyant,  doomed 
to  failure,  so  far  as  his  merit  is  concerned,  but 
with  an  incredible  luck.  He  gambled,  and  he 
lost  a  dozen  times ;  and  then  gambled  again, 
and  won.  That's  the  truth,  I  fancy.  No  real 
stuff  in  him  whatever." 

Their  hostess  put  down  her  tea-cup,  and 
looked  at  Dicky  in  blank  surprise.  Not  a 
muscle  in  his  face  moved.  She  looked  at 
Kingsley.  He  had  difficulty  in  restraining 
liimself,  but  by  stooping  to  give  her  fox-terrier 
a  piece  of  cake,  he  was  able  to  conceal  his 
consternation. 

"  I  cannot — cannot  believe  it,"  she  said 
slowly.  "  The  Jiritish  Consul  does  not  speak 
of  him  like  that." 

"He  is  a  cousin  of  the  Consul,"  urged 
Dicky. 

"  Cousin  I  What  cousin  ?  I  never  heard — 
he  never  told  me  that." 

236 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"  Oh,  nobody  tells  anything  in  Egypt,  un- 
less he's  kourbashed  or  thumb-screwed.  It's 
safer  to  tell  nothing,  you  know." 

"  Cousin  !  I  didn't  know  there  were  Kinsfs- 
leys  in  that  fomily.  What  reason  could  the 
Consul  have  for  hiding  the  relationship  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  you  must  ask  Kingsley. 
Flamboyant  and  garrulous  as  he  is,  he  proba- 
bly Avon't  tell  you  that." 

"  If  I  saw  Kingsley  Bey,  I  should  ask  him 
questions  w^hich  interest  me  more.  I  should 
prefer,  however,  to  ask  them  through  a  lawyer 
— to  him  in  the  prisoner's  dock." 

*'  Y^ou  dishke  him  intensely? " 

"  I  detest  him  for  what  he  has  done ;  but  I 
do  not  despise  him  as  you  suggest  I  should. 
Flamboyant,  garrulous — I  don't  beheve  that  I 
I  think  him,  feel  him,  to  be  a  hard  man,  a 
strong  man,  and  a  bad  man — if  not  wholly 
bad." 

"Yet  you  would  put  him  in  the  prison- 
er's dock,"  interposed  Kingsley  musingly,  and 
wondering  how  he  was  to  tell  her  that  Lord 
Selden  and  Kingsley  Bey  were  one  and  the 
same  person. 

*'  Certainly.  A  man  who  commits  public 
wrongs  should  be  punished.  Y"et  I  am  sorry 
that  a  man  so  capable  should  be  so  inhuman." 

"  Ah,  your  grandfather  was  inhuman,"  put 
237 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

in  Kingsley.     "  He  owned  great  West  Indian 
slave  properties." 

"  He  was  culpable,  and  should  have  been 
punished — and  was;  for  we  are  all  poor  at 
last.  The  world  has  higher,  better  standards, 
now,  and  we  should  live  up  to  them.  Kings- 
ley  Bey  should  live  up  to  them," 

"  I  suppose  we  might  be  able  to  punish  him 
yet,"  said  Dicky  meditatively.  "  If  Ismail 
turned  rusty,  we  could  soon  settle  him,  I 
fancy.  Certainly,  you  present  a  strong  case." 
He  peered  innocently  into  the  distance. 

"  But  could  it  be  done — but  would  you  ?  " 
she  asked,  suddenly  leaning  forward.  "If 
you  would,  you  could — you  could!  " 

"  If  I  did  it  at  all,  if  I  could  make  up  my 
mind  to  it,  it  should  be  done  thoroughly — no 
lialf  measures." 

"  Wliat  would  be  the  whole  measures  ? " 
slie  asked  eagerly,  but  with  a  certain  faint 
shrinking,  for  Dicky  seemed  cold-blooded. 

"  Of  course  you  never  could  tell  what  would 
liuppcn  when  Ismail  throws  the  slipper.  This 
isn't  a  country  where  things  are  cut  and  dried, 
and  done  according  to  Hoyle.  You  get  a 
new  combination  every  time  you  pull  a  string. 
ANHiere  tlicre's  no  system  and  a  thousand 
mctliods  you  liave  to  run  risks.  Kingsley 
Bey  might  get  mangled  in  the  machinery." 

238 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

She  shrank  a  httle.     "  It  is  all  barbarous." 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  is  guilty,  isn't  he  ? 
You  said  you  would  like  to  see  him  in  the 
prisoner's  dock.  Y^ou  would  probably  convict 
him  of  killing  as  well  as  slavery.  You  would 
torture  him  with  prison,  and  then  hang  him  in 
the  end.  Ismail  M'ould  probably  get  into  a 
rage — pretended,  of  course — and  send  an  army 
against  him.  Kingsley  would  make  a  fight 
for  it,  and  lose  his  head — all  in  the  interest  of 
a  sudden  sense  of  duty  on  the  part  of  the 
Khedive.  All  Europe  would  applaud — all 
save  England,  and  what  could  she  do  ?  Can 
she  defend  slavery?  There'll  be  no  kid-gloved 
justice  meted  out  to  Kingsley  by  the  Khedive,  if 
he  starts  a  campaign  against  him.  He  will  have 
to  take  it  on  the  devil's  pitchfork.  Y^ou  must 
be  logical,  you  know.  You  can't  have  it  both 
ways.  If  he  is  to  be  punished,  it  must  be  after 
the  custom  of  the  place.     This  isn't  England." 

She  shuddered  slightly,  and  Dicky  went  on : 
"  Then,  when  his  head's  off,  and  his  desert- 
city  and  his  mines  are  no  more,  and  his  slaves 
change  masters,  comes  a  nice  question.  Who 
gets  his  money  ?  Not  that  there's  any  doubt 
about  who'll  get  it,  but,  from  your  standpoint, 
who  should  get  it  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  something  like  em- 
barrassment. 

239 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

"  Money  got  by  slavery — yes,  who  should 
get  it  ?  "  interposed  Kingsley  carefully,  for  her 
eyes  had  turned  to  him  for  help.  "  AVould 
you  favour  his  heirs  getting  it  ?  Sliould  it 
go  to  the  State  ?  Should  it  go  to  the  slaves  ? 
Should  it  go  to  a  fund  for  agitation  against 
shivery  ?  .  .  .  You,  for  instance,  could  make 
use  of  a  fortune  like  his  in  a  cause  like  that, 
could  you  not?"  he  asked  with  what  seemed 
boyish  simplicity. 

The  question  startled  her.  "  I — I  don't 
know.  .  .  .  Oh,  certainly  not,"  she  hastened 
to  add  ;  "  I  couldn't  touch  the  money.  It  is 
absurd — impossible." 

"  I  can't  see  that,"  steadily  persisted  Kings- 
ley.  "  This  money  was  made  out  of  the  work 
of  slaves.  Certainly  they  were  paid — they 
were,  weren't  they  ? "  he  said  with  mock  ig- 
norance, turning  to  Dicky,  who  nodded  as- 
sent. "  They  were  paid  wages  by  Kingsley — 
in  kind,  I  suppose,  but  that's  all  that's  needed 
in  a  country  like  the  Soudan.  But  still  they 
Jidd  to  work,  and  tlieir  lives  and  bodies  were 
Kingsley 's  for  the  time  being,  and  the  fort- 
une wouldn't  have  been  made  witliout  them ; 
therefore,  according  to  tlie  most  finely  ad- 
\  anced  tlicories  of  labour  and  ownership,  the 
fortune  is  tlicirs  as  much  as  Kingsley 's.  But, 
in  the  nature  of  things,  they    couldn't   liave 

240 


A   TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

the  fortune.  What  would  they  do  with  it  ? 
Wandering  tribes  don't  need  money.  Bar- 
ter and  exchange  of  things  in  kind  is  the  one 
form  of  finance  in  the  Soudan.  Besides, 
they'd  cut  each  other's  throats  the  very  first 
day  they  got  the  fortune,  and  it  would  strew 
the  desert  sands.  It's  all  illogical  and  im- 
possible  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  quite  see  that,"  she  interposed. 

"  But  you  surely  can  see  how  the  fortune 
could  be  applied  to  saving  those  races  from 
slavery.  What  was  wrung  from  the  few  by 
forced  labour  and  loss  of  freedom  could  be  re- 
turned to  the  many  by  a  sort  of  national  sal- 
vation. Y^ou  could  spend  the  fortune  wisely 
— agents  and  missionaries  everywhere ;  in  the 
cqfeSy  in  the  bazaars,  in  the  palace,  at  court. 
Judicious  gifts  :  and,  at  last,  would  come  a 
firman  or  decree  putting  down  slavery,  on 
penalty  of  death.  The  fortune  would  all  go, 
of  course,  but  think  of  the  good  accom- 
plished ! " 

"  Y^ou  mean  that  the  fortune  should  be 
spent  in  buying  the  decree — in  backsheesh  ?  " 
she  asked  bewildered,  yet  becoming  indig- 
nant. 

"  Well,  it's  hke  company  promoting,"  Dicky 
interposed,  hugely  enjoying  the  comedy,  and 
thinking   that   Kingsley    had    put    the    case 

241 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

shrewdly.  It  was  sure  to  confuse  her.  *'  You 
have  to  clear  the  way,  as  it  were.  The  pre- 
liminaries cost  a  good  deal,  and  those  who 
put  the  machinery  in  working  order  have  to 
be  paid.  Then  there's  always  some  important 
person  who  holds  the  key  of  the  situation; 
his  counsel  has  to  be  asked.  Advice  is  very 
expensive." 

"  It  is  gross  and  wicked !  "  she  flashed  out. 

"  But  if  you  got  your  way  ?  If  you  sup- 
pressed Kingsley  Bey,  rid  the  world  of  him — 
oh,  well,  say,  banished  him,"  he  quickly  add- 
ed, as  he  saw  her  fingers  tremble — "  and  get 
your  decree,  wouldn't  it  be  worth  while?  Fire 
is  fought  with  fire,  and  you  would  be  using 
all  possible  means  to  do  what  you  esteem  a 
great  good.  Think  of  it — slavery  abolished, 
your  work  accomplished,  Kingsley  Bey  blotted 
out ! " 

light  and  darkness  were  in  her  face  at  once. 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  brows  became  knit- 
ted, her  foot  tapped  the  floor.  Of  course  it 
was  all  make-believe,  this  possibility,  but  it 
seemed  too  wonderful  to  think  of — slavery 
a})()lished,  and  through  her;  and  Kingsley  Bey, 
tlic  renegade  Englishman,  the  disgrace  to  his 
country,  l)lotted  out. 

"  Your  argument  is  not  sound  in  many 
ways,"   she  said   at   last,  trying   to   feel   her 

242 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

course.  "  We  must  be  just  before  all.  The 
whole  of  the  fortune  was  not  earned  by  slaves. 
Kingsley  Bey's  ability  and  power  were  the 
original  cause  of  its  existence.  Without  him 
there  would  have  been  no  fortune.  There- 
fore, it  would  not  be  justice  to  give  it,  even 
indirectly,  to  the  slaves  for  their  cause." 

*'  It  would  be  penalty — Kingsley  Bey's  pun- 
ishment," said  Dicky  slyly. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  was  to  be  blotted  out," 
she  said  ironically,  yet  brightening,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  proving  herself 
statesmanlike,  and  justifying  her  woman's 
feelings  as  well. 

"  When  he  is  blotted  out,  his  fortune 
should  go  where  it  can  remedy  the  evil  of  his 
life." 

"  He  may  have  been  working  for  some  good 
cause,"  quietly  put  in  Kingsley.  "Should 
not  that  cause  get  the  advantage  of  his  '  abil- 
ity and  power,'  as  you  have  called  it,  even 
though  he  was  mistaken,  or  perverted,  or 
cruel?  Shouldn't  an  average  be  struck  be- 
tween the  wrong  his  '  ability  and  power '  did 
and  the  right  that  same  '  ability  and  power ' 
was  intended  to  advance  ?  " 

She  turned  with  admiration  to  Kingsley. 
*'  How  well  you  argue — I  remember  you  did 
years  ago.     I  hate  slavery   and   despise   and 

243 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

hate  slave-dealers  and  slave-keepers,  but  I 
would  be  just,  too,  even  to  Kingsley  Bey. 
But  what  cause,  save  his  own  comfort  and 
fortune,  would  he  be  likely  to  serve  ?  Do 
you  know  him  ?  "  she  added  eagerly. 

"  Since  I  can  remember,"  answered  Kings- 
ley,  looking  through  the  field-glasses  at  a 
steamer  coming  up  the  river. 

"  Would  you  have  thought  that  he  would 
turn  out  as  he  has  ? "  she  asked  simply.  "  You 
see,  he  appears  to  me  so  dark  and  baleful  a 
figure  that  I  cannot  quite  regard  him  as  I  re- 
gard you,  for  instance.  I  could  not  realise 
knowing  such  a  man." 

"  lie  had  always  a  lot  of  audacity,"  Kings- 
ley  replied  slowly,  "  and  he  certainly  was  a 
schemer  in  his  way,  but  that  came  from  his 
helpless  poverty." 

"  Was  he  very  poor  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Always.  And  he  got  his  estates  heavily 
encumbered.  Then  there  were  people — old 
ladies — to  have  annuities,  and  many  to  be  pro- 
vided for,  and  there  was  little  chance  in  Eng- 
land for  him.  Good-temper  and  brawn  weren't 
enough." 

"Egypt's  the  place  for  mother-wit,"  broke 
in  Dicky.  "  He  had  that  anyhow.  As  to 
his  unscrupulousncss,  of  course  that's  as  you 
may  look  at  it." 

244 


A  TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

"  Was  he  always  unscrupulous  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  have  thought  him  cruel  and  wicked  na- 
tionally— un-English,  shamefully  culpable ;  but 
a  man  who  is  unscrupulous  would  do  mean, 
low  things,  and  I  should  like  to  think  that 
Kingsley  is  a  villain  with  good  points.  I  be- 
lieve he  has  them,  and  I  believe  that  deep 
down  in  him  is  something  English  and  hon- 
ourable after  all — something  to  be  reckoned 
with,  worked  on,  developed.  See,  here  is  a 
letter  I  had  from  him  two  days  ago," — she 
drew  it  from  her  pocket  and  handed  it  over 
to  Dicky.  "  I  cannot  think  him  hopeless  al- 
together ...  1  freed  the  slaves  who  brought 
the  letter,  and  sent  them  on  to  Cairo.  Do 
you  not  feel  it  is  hopeful  ? "  she  urged,  as 
Dicky  read  the  letter  slowly,  making  sotto  voce 
remarks  meanwhile. 

"  Brigands  and  tyrants  can  be  gallant — 
there  are  plenty  of  instances  on  record.  What 
are  six  slaves  to  him? " 

"  He  has  a  thousand  to  your  one,"  said 
Kingsley  slowly,  and  as  if  not  realising  his 
words. 

She  started,  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair, 
and  looked  at  him  indignantly.  "I  have  no 
slaves,"  she  said, 

Kingsley  Bey  had  been  watching  the  Cir- 
cassian girl,  JNIata,  in  the  garden  for  some 
17  245 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

time,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the 
temptation  to  make  the  suggestion  that  roused 
her  now. 

"  I  think  the  letter  rather  high-flown,"  said 
Dicky,  turning  the  point,  and  handing  the 
open  page  to  Kingsley.  "It  looks  to  me  as 
though  wTitten  with  a  purpose." 

"  AVhat  a  cryptic  remark ! "  said  Kingsley 
laughing,  yet  a  little  chagrined.  '*  What  you 
probably  wish  to  convey  is  that  it  says  one 
thing  and  means  another." 

"  Suppose  it  does,"  interposed  the  lady. 
"  The  fact  remains  that  he  answered  my  ap- 
peal, which  did  not  mince  words,  in  most 
diplomatic  and  gentlemanly  language.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  letter  ?  "  she  said,  turning 
to  Kingsley,  and  reaching  a  hand  for  it. 

"  I'll  guarantee  our  friend  here  could  do  no 
better,  if  he  sat  up  all  night,"  put  in  Dicky 
satirically. 

"  Y^ou  are  safe  in  saying  so,  the  opportu- 
nity being  lacking."  She  laughed,  and  folded 
it  up. 

"  I  believe  Kingsley  Bey  means  what  he 
says  in  that  letter.  Whatever  his  purpose,  I 
honestly  tliink  that  you  might  have  great 
irjfhiencc  over  him,"  mused  Dicky,  and,  get- 
ting up,  stepped  from  the  verandah,  as  though 
to  go  to  the  bank  where  an  incoming  steamer 

246 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

they  had  been  watching  was  casting  anchor. 
He  turned  presently,  however,  came  back  a 
step  and  said : 

"  You  see,  all  our  argument  resolves  itself 
into  this :  if  Kingsley  is  to  be  smashed  only 
Ismail  can  do  it.  If  Ismail  does  it,  Kingsley 
will  have  the  desert  for  a  bed,  for  he'll  not 
run,  and  Ismail  daren't  spare  him.  Sequel, 
all  his  fortune  will  go  to  the  Khedive.  Ques- 
tion, what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

So  saying  he  left  them,  laughing,  and  went 
down  the  garden-path  to  the  riverside.  The 
two  on  the  verandah  sat  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  Kingsley  spoke. 

"  These  weren't  the  things  we  talked  about 
when  we  saw  the  clouds  gather  over  Skaw 
Fell  and  the  sun  shine  on  the  Irish  Sea. 
We've  done  and  seen  much  since  then.  Mul- 
titudes have  come  and  gone  in  the  world — and 
I  have  gro^vn  gray !  "  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

"I've  done  little — nothing,  and  I  meant 
and  hoped  to  do  much,"  she  almost  pleaded. 
"  I've  grown  gray  too." 

"  Not  one  gray  hair,"  he  said,  with  an  ad- 
miring look. 

"  Gray  in  spirit  sometimes,"  she  reflected 
with  a  tired  air.  "  But  you — forgive  me,  if  I 
haven't  known  what  you've  done.  I've  lived 
out  of  England  so  long.     You  may  be  at  the 

24,7 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

head  of  the  Government,  for  all  I  know.  You 
look  to  me  as  though  you'd  been  a  success. 
Don't  smile.  I  mean  it.  You  look  as  though 
you'd  climbed.  You  haven't  the  air  of  an 
eldest  son  whose  way  is  cut  out  for  him,  with 
fifty  thousand  a  year  for  compensation.  What 
have  you  been  doing  ?  What  has  been  your 
work  in  life  ?  " 

"  The  opposite  of  yours." 

He  felt  himself  a  ruffian,  but  he  consoled 
himself  with  the  thought  that  the  end  at 
which  he  aimed  was  good.  It  seemed  un- 
generous to  meet  her  simple  honesty  by  such 
obvious  repartee,  but  he  held  on  to  see  where 
the  trail  would  lead. 

"  That  doesn't  seem  very  clear,"  she  said  in 
answer.  "  Since  I  came  out  here  I've  been  a 
sort  of  riverine  missionary,  an  apostle  with  no 
followers,  a  reformer  with  a  plan  of  salvation 
no  one  will  accept." 

"  W^e  are  not  stronger  tlian  tradition,  than 
the  long  custom  of  ages  bred  in  the  bone  and 
practised  by  the  flesh.  You  cannot  change  a 
people  by  firmans  ;  you  must  educate  them. 
Meanwhile,  things  go  on  pretty  much  the 
same.  You  are  a  generation  before  your 
time.  It  is  a  pity,  for  you  have  saddened 
your  youth,  and  you  may  nc^'er  live  to  see 
accompHshcd  what  you  have  toiled  for." 

248 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"Oh,  as  to  that— as  to  that  .  .  ."  She 
smoothed  back  her  hair  hghtly,  and  her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  distant  hills — mauve  and 
saffron  and  opal,  and  tender  with  the  mist  of 
evening.  "  What  does  it  matter ! "  she  added. 
"  There  are  a  hundred  ways  to  Hve,  a  hundred 
things  to  which  one  might  devote  one's  life. 
And  as  the  years  went  on  we'd  realise  how 
every  form  of  success  was  offset  by  something 
undone  in  another  direction,  something  which 
would  have  given  us  joy  and  memory  and 
content — so  it  seems.  But — but  we  can  only 
really  work  out  one  dream,  and  it  is  the  work- 
ing out — a  little  or  a  great  distance — which 
satisfies.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  those 
who,  living  out  their  dreams,  turn  regretfully 
to  another  course  or  another  aim,  and  wonder 
— wonder,  if  a  mistake  hasn't  been  made. 
Nothing  is  a  mistake  which  comes  of  a  good 
aim,  of  the  desire  for  A\Tongs  righted,  the 
crooked  places  made  straight.  Nothing 
matters  so  that  the  dream  was  a  good  one 
and  the  heart  approves,  and  the  eyes  see 
far." 

She  spoke  as  though  herself  in  a  dream, 
her  look  intent  on  the  glowing  distance,  as 
though  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

"It's  good  to  have  lived  among  mountains 
and  climbed  them  when  you  were  young.     It 

249 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

gives  you  bigger  ideas  of  things.  You  could 
see  a  long  way  with  the  sun  behind  you,  from 
Skaw  Fell." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  her  eyes  drew 
back  fi'om  the  distance  and  turned  on  him. 
She  smiled. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  gives  one  pro- 
portion, though  I've  been  told  by  Donovan 
Pasha  and  the  Consul  that  I  have  no  sense  of 
proportion.  AVhat  difference  does  it  make? 
It  is  the  metier  of  some  people  of  this  world 
to  tell  the  truth,  letting  it  ftill  as  it  will,  and 
offend  where  it  will,  to  be  a  Uttle  unjust  maybe, 
measure  wrongly  here  and  there,  lest  the  day 
pass  and  nothing  be  done.  It  is  for  the  world 
to  correct,  to  adjust,  to  organise,  to  regulate 
the  working  of  the  truth.  One  person  cannot 
do  all." 

Every  minute  made  him  more  and  more 
regretful,  while  it  deepened  his  feelings  for 
her.  He  saw  how  far  removed  was  her  mind 
from  tlie  sordid  views  of  things,  and  how  sin- 
cere a  philosophy  governed  her  actions  and 
her  mission. 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  continued  : 
"  I  suppose  I've  done  unwise  things  from  a 
worldly,  a  diplomatic,  and  a  political  point  of 
view.  I've — I've  broken  my  heart  on  the  rock 
of   the   impossible,    so   my   father   says.  .  .  . 

250 


A  TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

But,  no,  I  haven't  broken  my  heart.  I  have 
only  given  it  a  httle  too  much  hope  some- 
times, too  much  disappointment  at  others. 
In  any  case — can  one  be  pardoned  for  quoting 
poetry  in  these  days?  I  don't  know,  I've  been 
so  long  out  of  the  world : 

Bruised  hearts  when  all  is  ended. 
Bear  the  better  all  after-stings  ; 

Broken  once,  the  citadel  mended 
Standeth  through  all  things. 

I'm  not — not  hopeless,  though  I've  had  a  long 
hard  fight  here  in  Egypt;  and  I've  done  so 
little."  .  .  .  She  kept  smoothing  out  the  let- 
ter she  had  had  from  Kingsley  Bey,  as  though 
unconsciously.  "  But  it  is  coming,  the  better 
day.  I  know  it.  Some  one  will  come  who 
will  do  all  that  I  have  pleaded  for — stop  the 
corvee  and  give  the  peasants  a  chance;  stop 
slavery,  and  purify  the  harem  and  start  the 
social  life  on  a  higher  basis  ;  remove  a  dis- 
grace from  the  commerce  of  an  afflicted  land ; 
remove — remove  once  for  all  such  men  as 
Kingsley  Bey ;  make  it  impossible  for  fortunes 
to  be  made  out  of  human  flesh  and  blood." 
She  had  the  rapt  look  of  the  dreamer.  Sud- 
denly she  recovered  her  more  worldly  mood : 
"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  she  added. 
"  Have   you   come  to   take   up   official  life  ? 

251 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

Have  you  some  public  position — of  responsi- 
bility? Oh,  perhaps," — she  laughed  almost 
merrily — "you  are  the  very  man;  the  great 
reformer.  Perhaps  you  think  and  feel  as  I 
do,  though  you've  argued  against  me.  Per- 
haps you  only  wanted  to  see  how  real  my 
devotion  to  this  cause  is.  Tell  me,  are  you 
only  a  tourist — 1  was  going  to  say  idler,  but 
I  know  you  are  not;  you  have  the  face  of 
a  man  who  does  things — are  you  tourist  or 
worker  here?  What  does  Egypt  mean  to 
you  ?  That  sounds  rather  nonconformist,  but 
Egypt,  to  me,  is  the  saddest,  most  beautiful, 
most  mysterious  place  in  the  world.  All 
other  nations,  all  other  races,  every  person  in 
the  world  should  be  interested  in  Egypt. 
Egypt  is  the  lost  child  of  Creation — the  dear, 
pitiful  waif  of  genius  and  mystery  of  the 
world.  She  has  kept  the  calendar  of  the  ages 
— has  outlasted  all  other  nations,  and  remains 
the  same  as  they  change  and  pass.  She  has 
been  the  watcher  of  the  world,  the  one  who 
looks  on,  and  suffers,  as  the  rest  of  the  na- 
tions struggle  for  and  wound  her  in  their 
turn.  What  does  Egypt  mean  to  you  ?  What 
would  you  do  for  her — anytliing?  " 

There  was  no  more  satirical  laugliter  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  deeply  in  earnest,  disturbed, 
even  excited. 

S52 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

"  Egypt  means  everything  in  the  world  to 
me.     I  would  do  what  I  could  for  her." 

"  What  has  she  done  for  you  ?  " 

*'  She  has  brought  me  to  you  again — to 
make  me  know  that  what  you  were  by  Skaw 
Fell  all  those  years  ago,  you  are  now,  and  a 
thousand  times  more." 

She  parried  the  dangerous  meaning  in  his 
voice,  refused  to  see  the  tenderness  in  his  man- 
ner. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  she  added  in 
a  tone  vainly  trying  to  be  unconcerned.  "  It 
is  a  pity  that  our  youth  pursues  us  in  forms 
so  little  desirable.  .  .  .  Who  are  they  ?  "  she 
added  quickly,  nodding  towards  the  shore, 
from  which  Dicky  was  coming  with  an  Egyp- 
tian officer  and  a  squad  of  soldiers. 

"  H'm,"  he  responded  laughing,  "it  looks 
like  a  matter  of  consequence.  A  pasha,  I 
should  think,  to  travel  with  an  escort  like 
that." 

"  They're  coming  here,"  she  added,  and,  call- 
ing to  her  servant,  ordered  coffee. 

Suddenly  Kingsley  got  to  his  feet,  with  a 
cry  of  consternation  ;  but  sat  down  again  smil- 
ing with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  with  something 
like  anxiety,  for  she  had  seen  the  fleeting  sus- 
picion in  his  look. 

253 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  lightly,  and  as 
though  the  suspicion  had  gone.  He  watched 
Dicky  and  his  companions  closely,  however, 
though  he  chatted  unconcernedly  while  they 
stood  in  apparent  debate,  and  presently  came 
on.  Dicky  was  whisthng  softly,  but  with  an 
air  of  perplexity,  and  he  walked  with  a  precision 
of  step  which  told  Kingsley  of  difficulty  ahead. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait,  and  as  Dicky 
drew  nearer  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  he 
came  to  his  feet  again,  his  long  body  gathering 
itself  slowly  up,  as  though  for  deliberate  action. 
He  felt  trouble  in  the  air,  matters  of  moment, 
danger  for  himself,  though  of  precisely  what 
sort  was  not  clear.  He  took  a  step  forward, 
as  though  to  shield  the  lady  from  possible  af- 
front. 

"  I  fancy  they  want  to  see  me,"  he  said. 
He  recognized  the  officer — Foulik  Pasha,  of 
the  Khedive's  household. 

The  Pasha  salaamed.  Dicky  drew  over  to 
the  lady,  with  a  keen  warning  glance  at  Kings- 
ley.  'I'he  I'asha  salaamed  again,  and  Kingsley 
responded  in  kind. 

"  Good-day  to  you.  Pasha,"  he  said. 

"  May  the  dew  of  the  morning  bring  flowers 
to  your  life,  excellency,"  was  tlie  reply.  He 
sahuuned  now  towards  the  lady,  and  Kingsley 
murmured  his  name  to  her. 

254. 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"  Will  you  not  be  seated? "  she  said,  and 
touched  a  chair  as  though  to  sit  down,  yet 
casting  a  doubtful  glance  at  the  squad  of  men 
and  the  brilliant  kavass  drawn  up  near  by. 
The  Pasha  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
Kingsley  spoke. 

"  What  is  it,  Pasha?  Her  ladyship  doesn't 
know  why  she  should  be  honoured." 

"  Ah,  that  makes  no  difference,"  she  inter- 
posed. "  Here  is  coffee — ah,  that's  right,  cig- 
arettes too!  But,  yes,  you  will  take  my  cof- 
fee. Pasha,"  she  urged. 

The  insolent  look  which  had  gathered  in 
the  man's  face  cleared  away.  He  salaamed, 
hesitated,  and  took  the  coffee,  then  salaamed 
again  to  her. 

She  had  caught  at  a  difficulty  ;  an  instinctive 
sense  of  peril  had  taken  possession  of  her ;  and, 
feeling  that  the  danger  was  for  the  Englishman 
who  had  come  to  her  out  of  her  old  life,  she 
had  interposed  a  diplomatic  moment.  She 
wanted  to  gain  time  before  the  mystery  broke 
over  her.  She  felt  something  at  stake  for  her- 
self Premonition,  a  troubling  of  the  spirit 
told  her  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  crisis 
out  of  which  she  would  not  come  unchanged. 

Dicky  was  talking  now,  helping  her —  asking 
the  Pasha  questions  of  his  journey  up  the 
river,  of  the  last  news  from  Europe,  of  the 

255 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

Khedive's  health,  though  he  and  Kingsley  had 
only  left  Cairo  a  half-day  before  the  Pasha. 

The  officer  thanked  the  lady  and  salaamed 
again,  then  turned  towards  Kingsley. 

"  \^ou  wished  to  speak  with  me,  perhaps. 
Pasha,"  said  Kingsley. 

"  If  a  moment  of  your  time  may  have  so 
little  honour,  saadat  el  bey." 

Kingsley  moved  down  the  verandah  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  with  the  Pasha,  and  the  lat- 
ter's  men,  responding  to  a  glance,  moved  down 
also.     Kingsley  saw,  but  gave  no  heed. 

''What's  up.  Pasha?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"The  Khedive  commands  your  return  to 
Cairo." 

"With  you?" 

"  So,  effendi." 

"  Compulsion,  eh  ?  I  don't  see  quite.  I'm 
an  Englishman,  not  a  fellah." 

"  But  I  have  my  commands,  saadat  el 
bey." 

*'  What's  the  row,  I^isha  ?  " 

"Is  it  for  the  servant  to  know  the  mind  of 
his  master  ?  " 

"And  if  I  don't  go?" 

Tlie  Pasha  pointed  to  his  men,  and  motioned 
towards  the  boat  where  forty  or  fifty  others 
showed. 

S56 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"  Bosh,  Pasha !  That's  no  reason.  That's 
flummery,  and  you  know  and  the  Highness 
knows  it.  That  would  have  been  all  very 
well  in  the  desert,  but  this  is  not  the  desert, 
and  I'm  not  doing  business  with  the  Highness 
any  more.    What's  the  penalty  if  I  don't  go? " 

"  Twenty  men  will  lose  their  heads  to-mor- 
row morning,  a  riot  will  occur,  the  bank  where 
much  gold  is  will  be  broken  into,  some  one 
will  be  made  poor,  and " 

*'  Oh,  never  mind  twaddle  about  my  money 
— we'll  see  about  that.  Those  twenty  men — 
my  inen  ? " 

"  Your  men,  saadat." 

"  They're  seized  ?  " 

"They  are  in  prison." 

"Where?" 

"At  Abdin  Palace." 

Kingsley  Bey  had  had  a  blow,  but  he  was 
not  dumfounded.  In  Egypt,  the  wise  man  is 
never  surprised  at  anything,  and  Kingsley  had 
gone  from  experience  to  experience  without 
dismay.  He  realised  the  situation  at  once. 
The  Khedive  had  been  worked  upon  by  some 
one  in  the  circle,  and  had  put  on  this  pressure, 
for  purposes  of  backsheesh,  or  blackmail,  or 
whatever  it  might  be  called.  His  mind  was 
made  up  at  once. 

"  \''ery  well,  Pasha.  Though  there's  no 
257 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

reason  why  I  should  go  with  you  except  to 
suit  myself.  You'll  excuse  me  for  a  mo- 
ment? "     He  turned  back. 

Meanwhile,  Dicky  had  been  distracting  the 
mind  of  the  lady  with  evasive  and  cheerful 
suggestion  of  urgent  business  calling  Kingsley 
to  Cairo.  He  saw  the  plot  that  had  been  laid, 
and  it  made  him  very  angry,  but  nothing  could 
be  done  until  he  met  the  Khedive.  He 
guessed  who  had  filled  the  Khedive's  mind 
with  cupidity.  He  had  seen  old  Selamlik 
Pasha,  who  had  lent  the  Khedive  much 
money,  entering  the  Palace  as  he  left  with 
Kingsley  Bey  thirty-six  hours  before.  He 
had  hoped  that  he  could  save  the  situation, 
but  meanwhile,  he  was  concerned  for  the  new 
situation  created  here  at  Assiout.  What 
would  Kingsley  do?  He  knew  what  he  him- 
self would  do  in  the  circumstances,  but  in 
crises  few  men  of  character  do  the  necessary 
thing  in  exactly  the  same  way.  Here  was 
comedy  of  a  high  order,  a  mystery  and  nec- 
essary revelation  of  singular  piquancy.  To 
his  thinking  the  revelation  was  now  over- 
due. 

He  looked  at  the  woman  beside  him,  and 
he  saw  in  her  face  a  look  it  never  had  liad  be- 
fore. Revelation  of  a  kind  was  there  ;  beauty, 
imagination,  solicitude,  delicate  wonder  were 

258 


A   TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

there.  It  touched  him.  He  had  never  been 
arrested  on  his  way  of  hfe  by  any  dream  of 
fair  women,  or  any  dream  of  any  woman.  It 
did  not  seem  necessary — no  one  was  necessary 
to  him ;  he  Hved  his  real  hfe  alone,  never  shar- 
ing with  any  one  that  of  himself  which  was 
not  part  of  the  life  he  lived  before  the  world. 
Yet  he  had  always  been  liked  by  men,  and  he 
had  been  agi-eeable  in  the  sight  of  more  women 
than  he  knew,  this  little  man  with  a  will  of 
iron  and  a  friendly  heart.  But  he  laughed 
silently  now  as  he  saw  Kingsley  approaching ; 
the  situation  was  so  beautifully  invented.  It 
did  not  seem  quite  like  a  thing  in  real  hfe. 
In  any  other  country  than  Egypt,  it  would 
have  been  comic  opera — Foulik  Pasha  and  his 
men  so  egregiously  important ;  Kingsley  so 
overwhelmed  by  the  duty  that  lay  before  him ; 
the  woman  in  a  whimsically  embarrassing  po- 
sition with  the  odds,  the  laugh,  against  her, 
yet  little  likely  to  take  the  obvious  view  of 
things  and  so  make  possible  a  commonplace 
end.  What  would  she  do?  What  would 
Kingsley  do  ?  What  would  he,  Dicky  Dono- 
van, do  ?  He  knew  by  the  look  in  Kingsley 's 
eyes  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  He 
moved  down  to  Foulik  Pasha,  and,  taking  his 
•;irm,  urged  him  towards  the  shore  with  a 
whispered  word.     The  Pasha  responded,  fol- 

259 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

lowed  by  his  men,  but  presently  turned  and, 
before  Dicky  could  intervene — for  he  wanted 
Kingsley  to  make  his  own  revelation — said 
courteously : 

"May  the  truth  of  Allah  be  with  you,  I 
will  await  you  at  the  boat,  Kingsley  Bey." 

Dicky  did  not  turn  round,  but,  with  a  sharp 
exclamation  of  profanity,  drew  Foulik  Pasha 
on  his  imbecile  way. 

As  for  Kingsley  Bey,  he  faced  a  woman 
who,  as  the  truth  dawned  upon  her,  stared  at 
him  in  a  painful  silence  for  a  moment,  and 
then  drew  back  to  the  doorway  of  the  house 
as  though  to  find  sudden  refuge. 

Kingsley 's  head  went  round.  Nothing  had 
gone  according  to  his  anticipations.  Foulik 
Pasha  had  upset  things. 

"  Now  you  know — I  wished  to  tell  you  my- 
self," he  said. 

She  answered  at  once,  quietly,  coldly,  and 
with  an  even  formal  voice :  "  I  did  not  know 
your  name  was  Kingsley." 

"  It  was  my  grandmother's  name." 

"  r  had  forgotten  —  that  is  of  no  conse- 
quence, however  ;  but "  she  stopped. 

"  You  realise  that  I  am " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Kingsley  l^cy — I  quite  un- 
derstand.    I    thouglit   you    Lord  Selden,   an 

English  gentleman,     ^^ou  are "  she  made 

260 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

an  impatient  gesture — •"  well,  you  are  English 
still !  " 

He  was  hit  hard.  The  suggestion  of  her 
voice  was  difficult  to  bear. 

"  I  am  not  so  ungentlemanly  as  you  think. 
I  meant  to  tell  you — almost  at  once.  I 
thought  that  as  an  old  friend  I  might  wait  a 
moment  or  two.  The  conversation  got  in- 
volved, and  it  grew  harder  every  minute. 
Then  Foulik  Pasha  came — and  now " 

She  showed  no  signs  of  relenting.  "  It  was 
taking  advantage  of  an  old — acquaintance. 
Against  your  evil  influence  here  I  have  been 
working  for  years,  while  you  have  grown  rich 
out  of  the  slavery  I  detest.  You  will  pardon 
my  plain  speaking,  but  this  is  not  London, 
and  one  has  had  to  learn  new  ways  in  this 
life  here.  I  do  not  care  for  the  acquaintance 
of  slave-drivers,  I  have  no  wish  to  offer  them 
hospitality.  The  world  is  large  and  it  belongs 
to  other  people,  and  one  has  to  endure  much 
when  one  walks  abroad ;  but  this  house  is  my 
own  place,  a  little  spot  all  my  own,  and  I 
cherish  it.  There  are  those  who  come  to  the 
back-door,  and  they  are  fed  and  clothed  and 
sent  away  by  the  hand  of  charity  ;  there  are 
those  who  come  to  the  front-door,  and  I  wel- 
come them  gladly — all  that  I  have  is  theirs ; 
there  are  those  who  come  to  a  side-door,  when 
18  261 


A   TYRANT   AND   A  LADY 

no  one  sees,  and  take  me  unawares,  and  of 
them  I  am  afraid,  their  presence  I  resent.  My 
doors  are  not  open  to  slave-drivers." 

"  What  is  the  difference  between  the  letter 
from  the  slave-driver's  hand  and  the  slave- 
driver  himself? " 

She  started  and  flushed  deeply.  She  took 
the  letter  slowly  from  her  pocket  and  laid  it 
on  the  table. 

"  I  thought  it  a  letter  from  a  man  who  was 
openly  doing  wrong,  and  who  repented  a  little 
of  his  wrong-doing.  I  thought  it  a  letter  from 
a  stranger,  from  an  Englishman  who,  perhaps, 
had  not  had  such  advantages  of  birth  and  ed- 
ucation as  came  to  you." 

"  Yet  you  had  a  good  opinion  of  the  letter. 
There  seemed  no  want  of  education  and  all 
that  there — won't  you  be  reasonable,  and  let 
me  explain?     Give  me  half  a  chance." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  explanation  can  mend 
anything.  The  men  you  sent  me  to  free :  that 
was  a — well,  call  it  a  manoeuvre,  to  achieve 
what,  I  cannot  tell.  Is  it  not  so?  The  men 
are  not  free.     Is  it  not  so?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  they  are  not  free,"  he  an- 
swered, smihng  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Your  coming  here  was  a  manoeuvre  also — 
for  what  purpose  I  do  not  know.  Yet  it  was 
a  manoeuvre,  and  I  am — or  was  to   be — the 

262 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

victim  of  the  plot."  She  smiled  scornfully. 
"  I  trust  you  may  yet  be  the  victim  of  your 
own  conduct." 

"  In  more  ways  than  one,  maybe.  Don't 
you  think,  now  that  the  tables  are  turned,  that 
you  might  have  mercy  on  '  a  prisoner  and  a 
captive '  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  then  glanced 
towards  the  shore  where  Dicky  stood  talking 
with  Foulik  Pasha.  Her  eyes  came  back 
slowly  and  again  asked  a  question.  All  at 
once  intelhgence  flashed  into  them. 

"  Y^ou  wished  to  see  Kingsley  Bey  a  pris- 
oner; you  have  your  wish,"  he  said  smil- 
ing. 

"  Whose  prisoner  ? "  she  asked,  still  coldly. 

"  The  Khedive's." 

A  flash  of  triumph  crossed  her  face.  Her 
heart  beat  hard.  Had  it  come  at  last,  the 
edict  to  put  down  slavery?  Had  the  Khe- 
dive determined  to  put  an  end  to  the  work 
of  Kingsley  Bey  in  his  desert  city  —  and 
to  Kingsley  Bey  himself?  .  .  .  Her  heart 
stopped  beating  now.  She  glanced  towards 
Dicky  Donovan,  and  her  pulses  ran  more 
evenly  again.  Would  the  Khedive  have 
taken  such  a  step  unless  under  pressure? 
And  who  in  Egypt  could  have,  would  have, 
persuaded  him,  save  Dicky  Donovan?     Y"et 

263 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

Dicky  was  here  with  his  friend  Kingsley  Bey. 
The  mystery  troubled  her,  and  the  trouble  got 
into  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  going  to  Cairo?"  she  said,  glanc- 
ing towards  the  boat. 

"  It  would  seem  so." 

"And  Donovan  Pasha  goes  too?  " 

"  I  hope  so.     I  am  not  sure." 

"  But  he  must  go,"  she  said  a  little  sharply. 

*'  Yes  ?  " 

"  He — you  must  have  somebody,  and  he  has 
great  power." 

"  Tliat  might  or  might  not  be  to  my  bene- 
fit. After  all,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " — He  saw 
that  she  was  perturbed,  and  he  pressed  his 
advantage. 

She  saw,  however,  and  retreated.  "  We 
reap  as  we  sow,"  she  said,  and  made  as  if  to 
go  inside  the  house.  *'  You  have  had  the 
game,  you  must  pay  for  the  candles  out  of 
your  earnings." 

"  I  don't  mind  paying  what's  fair.  I  don't 
want  other  people  to  pay." 

She  turned  angrily  on  him,  he  could  not  tell 
why.  "  You  don't  want  others  to  pay  !  As 
if  you  could  do  anything  that  doesn't  affect 
others.  Did  you  learn  that  selfishness  at 
Skaw  Fell,  or  was  it  born  with  you  ?  You 
are  of  those  who  think  they  earn  all  their  own 

^64! 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

success  and  happiness,  and  then,  when  they 
earn  defeat  and  despair,  are  surprised  that 
others  suffer.  As  if  our  penalties  were  only 
paid  by  ourselves !  Egotism,  vanity !  So 
long  as  you  have  your  dance,  it  matters  little 
to  you  who  pays  for  the  tune." 

"  I  am  sorry."  He  was  bewildered ;  he  had 
not  expected  this. 

"  Does  a  man  stoop  to  do  in  a  foreign  land 
what  he  would  not  do  in  his  own  country — 
dare  not  do? — One  is  so  helpless — a  woman  ! 
Under  cover  of  an  old  friendship — ah  !  "  She 
suddenly  turned,  and,  before  he  could  say  a 
word,  disappeared  inside  the  house.  He  spoke 
her  name  once,  twice ;  he  ventured  inside  the 
house,  and  called,  but  she  did  not  come.  He 
made  his  way  to  the  verandah,  and  was  about 
to  leave  for  the  shore,  when  he  heard  a  step 
behind  him.  He  turned  quickly.  It  was  the 
Circassian  girl,  Mata. 

He  spoke  to  her  in  Arabic,  and  she  smiled 
at  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said,  for  he  saw  she  had 
come  from  her  mistress. 

"  ]\Iy  lady  begs  to  excuse — but  she  is  tired," 
she  said  in  English,  which  she  loved  to  use. 

"  I  am  to  go  on — to  prison,  then?  " 

"  I  suppose.  It  has  no  matter.  JNIy  lady  is 
angry.    She  has  to  say, '  Thank  you,  good-bye.' 

265 


1    -< 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

So,  good-bye,"  she  added  naively,  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

Kingsley  laughed,  in  spite  of  his  discomfit- 
ure, and  shook  it. 

"  Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

*'  I  am  my  lady's  slave,"  she  said  proudly. 

"  Oh,  no — her  servant.  Y^ou  can  come  and 
go  as  you  like.     Y^ou  have  wages." 

"  I  am  Mata,  the  slave — my  lady's  slave. 
All  the  vv^orld  knows  that  I  am  her  slave. 
AVas  I  not  given  her  by  the  Khedive  whose 
slave  I  was  ?  May  the  leaves  of  life  be  green 
always,  but  I  am  Mata,  the  slave,"  she  said 
stubbornly,  shaking  her  head. 

"Do  you  tell  my  lady  so  ?  " 

"  AVherefore  should  I  tell  my  lady  what  she 
knows  ?  Is  not  the  truth  the  truth  ? — good- 
night !  I  had  a  brother  who  went  to  prison. 
His  grave  is  by  Stamboul.  (iood-night,  effen- 
di.  He  was  too  young  to  die,  but  he  had 
gold,  and  the  Captain  of  the  Citadel  needed 
money.  So,  he  had  to  die.  Malaish!  He  is 
in  the  bosom  of  God,  and  prison  does  not  last 
for  ever.  Good-night,  effendi.  If  you,  effendi, 
are  poor,  it  is  well ;  no  man  will  desire  your 
life.  Tlien  you  can  be  a  slave,  and  have  quiet 
nights.  If  you  are  rich,  effendi,  remember  my 
brother,  (iood-niglit,  effendi.  May  sacrifices 
be  yours  .  .  .  and  my  lady  says  good-night." 

ii66 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

Kingsley  gave  her  a  gold-piece  and  Went 
down  to  Foulik  Pasha. 

As  they  steamed  away  Kingsley  looked  in 
vain  to  the  house  on  the  shore.  There  was 
no  face  at  window  or  door,  no  sign  of  life 
about  the  place. 

"  Well,  my  bold  Bey,"  said  Donovan  Pasha 
to  him  at  last.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
Egypt  now  ?  " 

**'  I'm  not  thinking  of  Egypt  now." 

"  Did  the  lady  deeply  sympathise  ?  Did 
your  prescription  work  ? " 

"Y^ou  know  it  didn't.  Nothing  worked. 
This  fool  Foulik  came  at  the  wrong  moment." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference. 
You  see  you  were  playing  with  marked  cards, 
and  that  is  embarrassing.  Y^ou  got  a  certifi- 
cate of  character  by " 

"Oh,  I  know.  That's  what  she  said. 
Never  mind.  I've  played  as  I  meant  to  play, 
and  I'll  abide  the  result.  I  said  I'd  marry 
her,  and  I  mean  to,  though  she  gently  showed 
me  the  door — beautiful,  proud  person  I  " 

"  She  is  much  too  good  for  you." 

"  What  does  that  matter,  if  she  doesn't 
think  so  ? " 

"  My  opinion  is  she'll  never  touch  you  or 
your  slave-gold  with  a  mile-measure." 

Dicky  did  not  think  this,  but  it  was  his  way 
2G7 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

of  easing  his  own  mind.  Inwardly  he  was 
studying  the  situation,  and  wondering  how 
he  could  put  Kingsley's  business  straight. 

"She  thinks  I'm  still  a  '  slave-driver,'  as  she 
calls  it — women  are  so  innocent.  Y^ou  did 
your  part,  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  I'm 
bound  to  say.  I  only  wish  I  wasn't  so  much 
trouble  to  you.  I  owe  you  a  lot,  Dicky  Pasha 
— everything !  You  got  me  the  golden  shil- 
lings to  start  with  ;  you  had  faith  in  me ;  you 
opened  the  way  to  fortune,  to  the  thing  that's 
more  than  fortune,  to  success." 

"  I'm  not  altogether  proud  of  you.  Y^ou've 
messed  things  to-day." 

"  I'll  set  them  right  to-morrow — with  your 
help.     Ismail  is  going  a  bit  large  this  time." 

"  He  is  an  Oriental.  A  life  or  two — think 
of  Sadik  Pasha.     Y^ou're  men " 

"  Well  ?  Y"ou  think  he'd  do  it— think  he'd 
dare  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Suppose  they  disappeared  ?  Who  could 
prove  that  Ismail  did  it  ?  And  if  it  could  be 
proved— they're  his  own  subjects,  and  the 
Nile  is  near  !     Who  can  say  him  nay  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  you  could — and  I  would." 

"  I  can  do  something.  I've  done  a  little  in 
my  day  ;  but  my  day,  like  Ismail's,  is  declin- 
ing. They  are  his  subjects,  and  he  needs 
money,  and  he  puts  a  price  on  their  heads — 

268 


A  TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

that's  about  the  size  of  it.  Question :  how 
much  will  you  have  to  pay?  How  much 
have  you  in  Cairo  at  the  bank  ?  " 

"  Only  about  ten  thousand  pounds." 

"  He'd  take  your  draft  on  England,  but 
he'll  have  that  ten  thousand  pounds,  if  he  can 
get  it." 

"  That  doesn't  matter,  but  as  for  my  ar- 
rest  " 

"  A  trick,  on  some  trumped-up  charge.  If 
he  can  hold  you  long  enough  to  get  some  of 
your  cash,  that's  all  he  wants.  He  knows 
he's  got  no  jurisdiction  over  you — not  a  day's 
hold.  He  knows  you'd  give  a  good  deal  to 
save  your  men." 

"  Poor  devils !  But  to  be  beaten  by  this 
Eg^'ptian  bull-dozer — not  if  I  know  it,  Dicky ! " 

"  Still,  it  may  be  expensive." 

"  Ah  ! "  Kingsley  Bey  sighed,  and  his  face 
was  clouded,  but  Dicky  knew  he  was  not 
thinking  of  Ismail  or  the  blackmail.  His  eyes 
were  on  the  house  by  the  shore,  now  disap- 
pearing, as  they  rounded  a  point  of  land. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Donovan  Pasha,  but  he  did  not 
sigh. 


269 


A   TYRANT  AND  A  LADV 

III 

"  Ah  I "  said  a  lady,  in  a  dirty  pink  house  at 
Assiout,  with  an  accent  which  betrayed  a  dis- 
covery and  a  resolution,  "  I  will  do  it.  I  may 
be  of  use  some  way  or  another.  The  Khedive 
won't  dare — but  still  the  times  are  desperate. 
As  Donovan  Pasha  said,  it  isn't  easy  holding 
down  the  safety-valve  all  the  time,  and  when 
it  flies  off,  there  will  be  dark  days  for  all  of 
us.  .  .  .  An  old  friend — bad  as  he  is!  Yes,  I 
will  go." 

Within  forty-eight  liours  of  Donovan  Pa- 
sha's and  Kingsley  Bey's  arrival  in  Cairo, 
the  lady  appeared  there,  and  made  inquiries  of 
her  friends.  No  one  knew  anything.  She 
went  to  the  Consulate,  and  was  told  that 
Kingsley  Bey  was  still  in  prison,  that  the  Con- 
sulate had  not  yet  taken  action. 

She  went  to  Donovan  Pasha,  and  he  ap- 
peared far  more  mysterious  and  troubled  than 
he  really  was.  Kingsley  Bey  was  as  cheerful 
as  might  be  expected,  he  said,  but  the  matter 
was  grave.  He  was  charged  with  the  de- 
struction of  the  desert-city,  and  maintaining 
an  army  of  slaves  in  the  Khedive's  dominions 
— a  menace  to  tlie  country. 

"  But  it  was  with  the  Khedive's  connivance," 
she  said. 

270 


A   TYRANT  AND  A   LADY 

"  Who  can  prove  that  ?  It's  a  difficult 
matter  for  England  to  handle,  as  you  can 
see. 

This  was  very  wily  of  Dicky  Donovan,  for 
he  was  endeavouring  to  create  alarm  and  sym- 
pathy in  the  woman's  mind,  by  exaggerating 
the  charge.  He  knew  that  in  a  few  days  at 
most  Kingsley  Bey  would  be  free.  He  had 
himself  given  Ismail  a  fright,  and  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  suggest  inside  knowledge  of 
the  plans  of  Europe  concerning  Egypt.  But 
if  he  could  deepen  the  roots  of  this  comedy  for 
Kingsley 's  benefit — and  for  the  lady's — it  was 
his  duty  so  to  do. 

"  Of  course,"  he  made  haste  to  add,  "  you 
cannot  be  expected  to  feel  sympathy  for  him. 
In  your  eyes,  he  is  a  criminal.  He  had  a  long 
innings,  and  made  a  mint  of  money.  We 
must  do  all  we  can,  and,  of  course,  we'll  save 
his  life — ah,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  exact  the 
fullest  penalty  on  him  !  " 

Dicky  was  more  than  wily;  he  was  some- 
thing wicked.  The  suggestion  of  danger  to 
Kingsley's  life  had  made  her  wince,  and  he 
had  added  another  little  barbed  arrow  to  keep 
the  first  company.  The  cause  was  a  good  one. 
Hurt  now  to  heal  afterwards — and  Kingsley 
was  an  old  friend,  and  a  good  fellow.  Any- 
how, this  work  was  wasting  her  life,  and  she 

271 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

would  be  much  better  back  in  England,  living 
a  civilised  life,  riding  in  the  Row,  and  slum- 
ming a  little,  in  the  East  End,  perhaps,  and 
presiding  at  meetings  for  the  amelioration  of 
the  unameUorated.  He  was  rather  old-fash- 
ioned in  his  views.  He  saw  the  faint  trouble 
in  her  eyes  and  face,  and  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  work  while  it  was  yet  the  day. 
He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  suddenly 
interposed  a  question. 

* '  Is  he  comfortable  ?  How  does  he  take  it  ? " 
"  Oh,  all  right.  Y^ou  know  the  kind  of 
thing:  mud- walls  and  floor — quite  dry,  of 
course — and  a  sleeping-mat,  and  a  balass  of 
water,  and  cakes  of  doiu-ha,  and  plenty  of  time 
to  think.  After  all,  he's  used  to  primitive  fare." 
Donovan  Pasha  was  drawing  an  imaginary 
picture,  and  drawing  it  with  effect.  He  al- 
most believed  it  as  his  artist's  mind  fashioned 
it.  She  believed  it,  and  it  tried  her.  Kings- 
ley  Bey  was  a  criminal,  of  course,  but  he  was 
an  old  friend ;  he  had  offended  her  deeply  also, 
but  that  was  no  reason  wliy  he  should  be  pun- 
islied  by  any  one  save  herself  Her  regimen 
of  punishments  would  not  necessarily  include 
mud-walls  and  floor,  and  a  sleeping-mat  and  a 
balass  of  water;  and  whatever  it  included  it 
sliould  not  be  administered  by  any  liand  save 
lier  own.      She  therefore  resented,  not  quite 

272 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

unselfishly,  this  indignity  and  punishment  the 
Khedive  had  commanded. 

"  When  is  he  to  be  tried  ?  " 

"Well,  that  is  hardly  the  way  to  put  it. 
When  he  can  squeeze  the  Khedive  into  a 
corner  he'll  be  free,  but  it  takes  time.  We 
have  to  go  carefully,  for  it  isn't  the  slave- 
master  alone,  it's  those  twenty  slaves  of  his, 
including  the  six  you  freed.  Their  heads  are 
worth  a  good  deal  to  the  Khedive,  he  thinks." 

She  w^as  dumfounded.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand," she  said  helplessly. 

"  Oh,  the  Khedive  put  your  six  and  four- 
teen others  in  prison  for  treason  or  something 
— it  doesn't  matter  much  here  what  it  is.  His 
game  is  to  squeeze  Kingsley's  gold  orange  dry, 
if  he  can." 

A  light  broke  over  her  face.  "  Oh,  now  I 
see,"  she  said,  and  her  face  flushed  deeply  with 
anger  and  indignation.  "  And  you — Dono- 
van Pasha,  you  who  are  supposed  to  have 
influence  with  the  Khedive,  who  are  supposed 
to  be  an  English  influence  over  him,  you  can 
speak  of  this  quietly,  patiently,  as  a  matter 
possible  to  your  understanding.  This  barbar- 
ous, hideous  blackmail !  This  cruel,  dreadful 
tyranny  !  You,  an  Englishman,  remain  in  the 
service  of  the  man  who  is  guilty  of  such  a 
crime !  "     Her  breath  came  hard. 

273 


A   TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

"  Well,  it  seems  the  wisest  thing  to  do  as 
yet.  You  have  lived  a  long  time  in  Egypt, 
you  should  know  what  Oriental  rule  is.  Ques- 
tion— is  a  bite  of  a  cherry  better  than  no  bite 
of  a  cherry  ?  Egypt  is  like  a  circus,  but  there 
are  wild  horses  in  the  ring,  and  you  can't  ride 
them  just  as  you  like.  If  you  keep  them  in- 
side the  barriers,  that's  something.  Of  course, 
Kingsley  made  a  mistake  in  a  way.  He  didn't 
start  his  desert- city  and  his  slavery  without 
the  consent  of  the  Khedive ;  he  shouldn't  have 
stopped  it  and  gone  out  of  business  without 
the  same  consent.  It  cut  down  the  EfFen- 
dina's  tribute." 

He  spoke  slowly,  counting  every  word, 
watching  the  effect  upon  her.  He  had  much 
to  watch,  and  he  would  have  seen  more  if  he 
had  known  women  better. 

"He  has  abandoned  the  mines — his  city — 
and  slavery  ? "  she  said  chokingly,  confusedly. 
It  seemed  hard  for  her  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  yes,  didn't  you  know  ?  Didn't  he  tell 
you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  was  thinking  back 
— remembering  their  last  conversation,  remem- 
bering how  sharp  and  unfriendly  she  had  been 
with  him.  He  had  even  then  fi-eed  his  slaves, 
had  given  her  slaves  to  free. 

"  I  wonder  what  made  him  do  it  ? "  added 
274 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

Dicky.  "  He  had  made  a  great  fortune — poor 
devil,  he  needed  it,  for  the  estates  were  sweat- 
ing under  the  load.  I  wonder  what  made  him 
doit?" 

She  looked  at  him  bewilderedly  for  a  mo- 
ment, then,  suddenly,  some  faint  suspicion 
struck  her. 

"  You  should  know.  You  joined  with  him 
in  deceiving  me  at  Assiout." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  responded  quickly,  and  with 
rare  innocence,  "the  situation  was  difficult. 
You  already  knew  him  very  well,  and  it  was 
the  force  of  circumstances — simply  the  force 
of  circumstances.  Bad  luck — no  more.  He 
was  innocent,  mine  was  the  guilt.  I  confess  I 
was  enjoying  the  thing,  because — because,  you 
see,  he  had  deceived  me,  actually  deceived  me, 
his  best  friend.  I  didn't  know  he  knew  you 
personally,  till  you  two  met  on  that  verandah 
at  Assiout,  and " 

"  And  you  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  ex- 
plain at  once — I  remember." 

"I'm  afraid  I  did.  I've  got  a  nasty  little 
temper  at  times,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  get 
even.  Then  things  got  mixed,  and  Foulik 
Pasha  upset  the  whole  basket  of  plums.  Be- 
sides, you  see,  I'm  a  jealous  man,  an  envious 
man,  and  you  never  looked  so  well  as  you  did 
that  day,  unless  it's  to-day." 

275 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

She  was  about  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  went 
on. 

"  I  had  begun  to  feel  that  we  might  have 
been  better  friends,  you  and  I;  that — that  I 
might  have  helped  you  more;  that  you  had 
not  had  the  sympathy  you  deserved ;  that  civ- 
ilisation was  your  debtor,  and  that  I " 

"  No,  no,  no,  you  must  not  speak  that  way 
to  me,"  she  interposed  with  agitation.  "  It — 
it  is  not  necessary.  It  doesn't  bear  on  the 
matter.  And  you've  always  been  a  good 
friend — always  a  good  friend,"  she  added  with 
a  httle  friendly  quiver  in  her  voice,  for  she  was 
not  quite  sure  of  herself 

Dicky  had  come  out  in  a  new  r61e,  one 
wherein  he  would  not  have  been  recognised. 
It  was  probably  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
tried  the  delicate  social  art  of  playing  with 
fire  of  this  sort.  It  was  all  true  in  a  way,  but 
only  in  a  way.  The  truest  tiling  about  it  was 
that  it  was  genuine  comedy,  in  which  there  were 
two  villains,  and  no  hero,  and  one  heroine. 

"  But  there  it  is,"  he  repeated,  having  gone 
as  far  as  his  cue  warranted.  "  I  didn't  know 
he  had  given  up  his  desert-city  till  two  days 
before  you  did,  and  I  didn't  know  he  knew 
you,  and  I  don't  know  why  he  gave  up  his 
desert-city — do  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  new  light  in  her  eyes,  a  new 
276 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

look  in  her  face.  She  was  not  sure  but  that 
she  had  a  ghmmermg  of  the  reason.  It  was  a 
woman's  reason,  and  it  was  not  without  a  cer- 
tain exquisite  egotism  and  vanity,  for  she  re- 
membered so  well  the  letter  she  had  written 
him, — every  word  was  etched  into  her  mind  ; 
and  she  knew  by  heart  every  word  of  his  re- 
ply. Then  there  were  the  six  slaves  he  sent 
to  her — and  his  coming  immediately  after- 
wards. .  .  .  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to 
glow,  and  then  the  colour  slowly  faded  and 
left  her  face  rather  gray  and  very  quiet. 

He  might  not  be  a  slave-driver  now,  but  he 
had  been  one — and  the  world  of  difference  it 
made  to  her !  He  had  made  his  great  fort- 
une out  of  the  work  of  the  men  employed  as 
slaves,  and — she  turned  away  to  the  window 
with  a  dejected  air.  For  the  first  time  the 
real  weight  of  the  problem  pressed  upon  her 
heavily. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  him,"  said 
Dicky.  "  It  might  show  that  you  were  mag- 
nanimous." 

"  JNIagnanimous  !  It  will  look  like  that — 
in  a  mud-cell,  with  mud  floor,  and  a  piece  of 
matting." 

"And  a  balass  of  water  and  dourha-cakes," 
said  Dicky  in  a  childlike  way,  and  not  daring 

to  meet  her  eyes. 

19  277 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

He  stroked  his  moustache  with  his  thumb- 
nail in  a  way  he  had  when  perplexed.  Kings- 
ley  Bey  was  not  in  a  mud-cell,  with  a  mat  and 
a  balass  of  water,  but  in  a  very  decent  apart- 
ment indeed,  and  Dicky  was  trying  to  work 
the  new  situation  out  in  his  mind.  The  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  have  Kingsley  removed  to 
a  mud-cell,  and  not  let  him  know  the  author 
of  his  temporary  misfortune  and  this  new  in- 
dignity. She  was  ready  to  visit  him  now — he 
could  see  that.  He  made  difficulties,  how- 
ever, which  would  prevent  their  going  at  once, 
and  he  arranged  with  her  to  go  to  Kingsley  in 
the  late  afternoon. 

Her  mind  was  in  confusion,  but  one  thing 
shone  clear  through  the  confusion,  and  it 
was  the  iniquity  of  the  Khedive.  It  gave 
her  a  foot-hold.  She  was  deeply  gi-ateful 
for  it.  She  could  not  have  moved  without 
it.  So  shameful  was  the  Khedive  in  her 
eyes  that  the  prisoner  seemed  Criminal  made 
Martyr. 

She  went  back  to  her  hotel  flaming  with  in- 
dignation against  Ismail.  It  was  very  com- 
forting to  her  to  liave  this  resource.  The  six 
slaves  whom  she  had  freed — the  first-fruits  of 
her  labours :  that  they  should  be  murdered ! 
The  others  who  liad  done  no  liarm,  who  had 
been   slaves   by   Ismail's   consent,   that    they 

278 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

should  be  now  in  danger  of  their  Hves  through 
the  same  tyrant !  That  Kingsley  Bey,  who 
had  been  a  slave-master  with  Ismail's  own  ap- 
proval and  to  his  advantage,  should  now — she 
glowed  with  pained  anger.  ...  She  would 
not  wait  till  she  had  seen  Kingsley  Bey,  or 
Donovan  Pasha  again ;  she  herself  would  go 
to  Ismail  at  once. 

So,  she  went  to  Ismail,  and  she  was  ad- 
mitted, after  long  waiting  in  an  anteroom. 
She  would  not  have  been  admitted  at  all,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Dicky  who,  arriving  just 
before  her  on  the  same  mission,  had  seen  her 
coming,  and  guessed  her  intention.  He  had 
then  gone  in  to  the  Khedive  with  a  new  turn 
to  his  purposes,  a  new  argument  and  a  new 
suggestion,  which  widened  the  scope  of  the 
comedy  now  being  played.  He  had  had  a 
struggle  with  Ismail,  and  his  own  place  and 
influence  had  been  in  something  like  real 
danger,  but  he  had  not  minded  that.  He  had 
suggested  that  he  might  be  of  service  to 
Egypt  in  London  and  Paris.  That  was  very 
like  a  threat,  but  it  was  veiled  by  a  look  of 
genial  innocence  which  Ismail  admired  gi-eatly. 
He  knew  that  Donovan  Pasha  could  hasten 
the  crisis  coming  on  him.  He  did  not  believ^e 
that  Donovan  Pasha  would,  but  that  did  not 
alter  the  astuteness  and  value  of  the  move  ; 

279 


A  TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

and,  besides,  it  was  well  to  run  no  foolish 
risks  and  take  no  chances.  Also,  he  beUeved 
in  Donovan  Pasha's  honesty.  He  despised 
him  in  a  worldly  kind  of  way,  because  he 
might  have  been  rich  and  splendid,  and  he 
was  poor  and  unassuming.  He  wanted  Kings- 
ley  Bey's  fortune,  or  a  gi-eat  slice  of  it,  but 
he  wanted  it  without  a  struggle  with  Dicky 
Donovan,  and  with  the  British  Consulate — for 
that  would  come,  too,  directly.  It  gave  him 
no  security  to  know  that  the  French  would  be 
with  him — he  knew  which  country  would  win 
in  the  end.  He  was  preying  on  Kingsley 
Bey's  humanity,  and  he  hoped  to  make  it  well 
worth  while.  And  all  he  thought  and  planned 
was  well  understood  by  Dicky. 

Over  their  coffee  they  both  talked  fi'om 
long  distances  towards  the  point  of  attack 
and  struggle,  Ismail  carelessly  throwing  in 
glowing  descriptions  of  the  palaces  he  was 
building.  Dicky  never  failed  to  show  illusive 
interest,  and  both  knew  that  they  were  not 
deceiving  the  other,  and  both  came  nearer 
to  the  issue  by  devious  processes,  as  though 
these  processes  were  inevitable.  At  last 
Dicky  suddenly  changed  his  manner  and  came 
straight  to  the  naked  crisis. 

"  I  Ugliness,  I  have  an  invitation  for  Kings- 
ley    Bey    to    dine    at    the    British    Consul- 

280 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

ate    to-night.      Y^ou     can     spare     his    pres- 
ence ? " 

"My  table  is  not  despicable.  Is  he  not 
comfortable  here  ? " 

"  Is  a  mud  floor,  with  bread  and  water  and 
a  sleeping-mat,  comfortable  ?  " 

"  He  is  lodged  like  a  friend." 

"  He  is  lodged  like  a  slave — in  a  cell." 

"  They  were  not  my  orders." 

"  Effendina,  the  orders  were  mine." 

"  Excellency  !  " 

"  Because  there  were  no  orders  and  Foulik 
Pasha  was  sleepless  with  anxiety  lest  the  pris- 
oner should  escape,  fearing  your  Highness' 
anger,  I  gave  orders  and  trusted  your  High- 
ness to  approve." 

Ismail  saw  a  mystery  in  the  words,  and 
knew  that  it  was  all  to  be  part  of  Dicky's 
argument  in  the  end. 

"So  be  it,  excellency,"  he  said,  "thou  hast 
breathed  the  air  of  knowledge,  thine  actions 
shine.  In  what  quarter  of  the  Palace  rests 
he?     And  Foulik  Pasha?" 

"  Foulik  Pasha  sits  by  his  door,  and  the 
room  is  by  the  doorway  where  the  sarrafs  keep 
the  accounts  for  the  palaces  your  Highness 
builds.  Also,  abides  near,  the  Greek,  who 
toils  upon  the  usury  paid  by  your  Highness 
to  Europe." 

281 


A  TYRANT  AND   A  LADY 

Ismail  smiled.  The  allusions  were  subtle 
and  piercing.  There  was  a  short  pause. 
Each  was  waiting. 

Dicky  changed  the  attack.  "  It  is  a  pity 
-w^  should  be  in  danger  of  riot  at  this  moment, 
Highness." 

"  If  riots  come,  they  come.  It  is  the  will 
of  God,  excellency.  But  in  our  hand  lies 
order.  We  will  quiet  the  storm,  if  a  storm 
fall." 

"  There  will  be  wreck  somewhere." 

"  So  be  it.     There  will  be  salvage." 

"  Nothing  worth  a  riot.  Highness." 

The  Khedive  eyed  Dicky  with  a  sudden 
malice  and  a  desire  to  slay — to  slay  even 
Donovan  Pasha.  He  did  not  speak,  and 
Dicky  continued  negligently :  **  Prevention  is 
better  than  cure." 

The  Khedive  understood  perfectly.  He 
knew  that  Dicky  had  circumvented  him,  and 
had  warned  the  Bank. 

Still  the  Khedive  did  not  speak.  Dicky 
went  on.  "  Kingsley  Bey  deposited  ten  thou- 
sand pounds — no  more.  But  the  gold  is  not 
there;  only  Kingsley  Bey's  credit." 

"  His  slaves  shall  die  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Not  so.  Highness." 

The  Khedive's  fingers  twisted  round  the 
chair-arm  savagely. 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

"Who  will  prevent  it?" 

"Your  Highness  will.  Your  Highness 
could  not  permit  it — the  time  is  far  past 
Suppose  Kingsley  Bey  gave  you  his  whole 
fortune,  would  it  save  one  palace  or  pay  one 
tithe  of  your  responsibilities?  Would  it 
lengthen  the  chain  of  safety  ?  " 

"  I  am  safe." 

"  No,  Highness.  In  peril — here  with  your 
own  people,  in  Europe  with  the  nations. 
Money  will  not  save  you." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"Prestige.  Power — the  Soudan.  Estab- 
lish yourself  in  the  Soudan  with  a  real  army. 
Let  your  name  be  carried  to  the  Abyssinian 
mountains  as  the  voice  of  the  eagle." 

"  Who  will  carry  it? "  He  laughed  disdain- 
fully, with  a  bitter,  hopeless  kind  of  pride. 
"Who  will  carry  it?" 

"  Gordon — again," 

The  Khedive  started  from  his  chair,  and  his 
sullen  eye  lighted  to  laughter.  He  paced  ex- 
citedly to  and  fro  for  a  minute,  and  then  broke 
out. 

"  Thou  hast  said  it !  Gordon — Gordon — if 
he  would  but  come  again  I — But  it  shall  be 
so,  by  the  beard  of  God's  prophet  1  It  shall. 
Thou  hast  said  the  thing  that  has  lain  in  my 
heart.     Have  I  had    honour  in  the  Soudan 

283 


A  TYRANT  AND  A  LADY 

since  his  feet  were  withdrawn?  Where  is 
honour  and  tribute  and  gold  since  his  hand 
ruled — alone  without  an  arnriy.  It  is  so — 
Inshallah  !  but  it  is  so.  He  shall  come  again, 
and  the  people's  eyes  will  turn  to  Khartoum 
and  Darfur  and  Kordofan,  and  the  greedy  na- 
tions will  wait.  Ah,  my  friend,  but  the  true 
inspiration  is  thine.  I  will  send  for  Gordon 
to-night — even  to-night.  Thou  shalt  go — no, 
no,  not  so.  Who  can  tell — I  might  look  for 
thy  return  in  vain  !  But  who — who,  to  carry 
my  word  to  Gordon  ?  '* 

"  Your  messenger  is  in  the  anteroom,"  said 
Dicky  with  a  sudden  thought. 

"  Who  is  it,  son  of  the  high  hills  ? " 

"  The  lady  at  Assiout — she  who  is  such  a 
friend  to  Gordon  as  I  am  to  thee.  High- 
ness." 

"  She  whose  voice  and  hand  are  against 
slavery." 

"Even  so.  It  is  good  that  she  return  to 
England — ^there  to  remain.     Send  her." 

"  Why  is  she  here  ? "  The  Khedive  looked 
suspiciously  at  Dicky,  for  it  seemed  that  a  plot 
had  been  laid. 

Thereupon,  Dicky  told  the  Khedive  the 
whole  story,  and  not  in  years  had  Ismail's  face 
shown  such  abandon  of  humour. 

"  By  the  will  of  God,  but  it  shall  be,"  he 
284 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

said.     "  She  shall  marry  Kingsley  Bey,  and  he 
shall  go  fi-ee." 

"  But  not  till  she  has  seen  him  and  mourned 
over  him  in  his  cell,  with  the  mud  floor  and 
the  balass  of  water." 

The  Khedive  laughed  outright  and  swore 
in  French.  "  And  the  cakes  of  dourha  !  I 
will  give  her  as  a  parting  gift  the  twenty 
slaves,  and  she  shall  bring  her  great  work  to  a 
close  in  the  arms  of  a  slaver.  It  is  worth  a 
fortune." 

*'  It  is  worth  exactly  ten  thousand  pounds 
to  your  Highness  —  ten  thousand  pounds 
neither  more  nor  less." 

Ismail  questioned. 

"  Kingsley  Bey  would  make  last  tribute  of 
thus  much  to  your  Highness." 

Ismail  would  not  have  dechned  ten  thou- 
sand centimes.  "3Ialcdsh/'^  he  said,  and 
called  for  coffee,  while  they  planned  what 
should  be  said  to  his  Ambassadress  from 
Assiout. 

She  came  trembling,  yet  determined,  and 
she  left  with  her  eyes  full  of  joyful  tears.  She 
was  to  carry  the  news  of  his  freedom  and  the 
freedom  of  his  slaves  to  Kingsley  Bey,  and 
she — she,  was  to  bear  to  Gordon,  the  foe  of 
slavery,  the  world's  benefactor,  the  message 
that  he  was  to  come  and  save  the  Soudan. 

285 


A   TYRANT   AND   A   LADY 

Her  vision  was  enlarged,  and  never  went 
from  any  prince  a  more  grateful  applicant 
and  envoy. 

Donovan  Pasha  went  with  her  to  the  room 
with  the  mud  floor  where  Kingsley  Bey  was 
confined. 

"  I  owe  it  all  to  you,"  she  said  as  they  hast- 
ened across  the  suns  wept  square.  "  Ah,  but 
you  have  atoned !  Y^ou  have  done  it  all  at 
once,  after  these  long  years." 

"Ah,  well,  the  time  is  ripe,"  said  Dicky 
piously. 

They  found  Kingsley  Bey  reading  the  last 
issue  of  the  French  newspaper  published  in 
Cairo.  He  was  laughing  at  some  article  in 
it  abusive  of  the  English,  and  seemed  not 
very  downcast ;  but  at  a  warning  sign  and 
look  from  Dicky,  he  became  as  grave  as  he 
was  inwardly  delighted  at  seeing  the  lady  of 
Assiout. 

As  Kingsley  Bey  and  the  Ambassadress 
shook  hands,  Dicky  said  to  her:  "I'll  tell 
him,  and  then  go." 

Forthwith  he  said :  "  Kingsley  Bey,  son 
of  the  desert,  and  unliappy  prisoner,  the  prison 
opens  its  doors.  No  more  for  you  the  cold 
earth  for  a  bed — relieved  tliough  it  be  by  a 
sleeping-mat.  No  more  tlie  cake  of  dourha 
and  the  balass  of  Nile  water.     Inshallahy  you 

£86 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

are  as  free  as  a  bird  on  the  mountain  top,  to 
soar  to  far  lands  and  none  to  say  thee  nay." 

Kingsley  Bey  caught  instantly  at  the  mean- 
ing lying  beneath  Dicky's  whimsical  phrases, 
and  he  deported  himself  accordingly.  He 
looked  inquiringly  at  the  Ambassadress,  and 
she  responded. 

"We  come  from  the  Khedive,  and  he  bids 
us  carry  you  his  high  considerations " 

"Y^es,  'high  considerations,'  he  said,"  inter- 
jected Dicky  with  his  eye  towards  a  fly  on  the 
ceiling. 

"  And  to  beg  your  company  at  dinner  to- 
night." 

"  And  the  price  ?  "  asked  Kingsley,  feeling 
his  way  carefully,  for  he  wished  no  more  mis- 
takes where  this  lady  was  concerned.  At 
Assiout  he  had  erred ;  he  had  no  desire  to  be 
deceived  at  Cairo.  He  did  not  know  how  he 
stood  with  her,  though  her  visit  gave  him 
audacious  hopes.  Her  face  was  ruled  to  quiet- 
ness now,  and  only  in  the  eyes  resolutely 
turned  away  was  there  any  look  which  gave 
him  assurance.  He  seemed  to  hear  her  talk- 
ing from  the  verandah  that  last  day  at  Assi- 
out ;  and  it  made  him  discreet  at  least. 

"  Oh,  the  price  !  "  murmured  Dicky,  and  he 
seemed  to  study  the  sleepy  sarraf  who  pored 
over  his  accounts  in  tlie  garden.     "  The  price 

287 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

is  '  England,  home  and  beauty.'  Also,  to 
prop  up  the  fiilling  towers  of  Khedivia — ten 
thousand  pounds!     Also,  Gordon." 

Kingsley  Bey  appeared,  as  he  was,  mysti- 
fied, but  he  was  not  inclined  to  spoil  things  by 
too  much  speaking.     He  looked  inquiry. 

At  that  moment  an  orderly  came  running 
towards  the  door — Dicky  had  arranged  for 
that.  Dicky  started,  and  turned  to  the  lady. 
"  You  tell  him.  This  fellow  is  coming  for 
me.  I'll  be  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
He  nodded  to  them  both  and  went  out  to  the 
orderly,  who  followed  his  footsteps  to  the 
Palace. 

' '  Y^ouVe  forgiven  me  for  everything — for 
everything  at  Assiout,  I  mean?  "  he  said. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  remember,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  About  Gordon — what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  about  Gordon."  She  drew  her- 
self up  a  little.  "  I  am  to  go  to  England — for 
the  Khedive,  to  ask  Gordon  to  save  the  Sou- 
dan." 

"Then  you've  forgiven  the  Khedive?"  he 
said  with  apparent  innocence. 

"  I've  no  wish  to  prevent  him  showing  prac- 
tical repentance,"  she  answered,  keenly  alive  to 
his  suggestion,  and  a  little  nettled,  "  It  means 
no  more  slavery.     Gordon  will  prevent  that." 

288 


A  TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

"  Will  he  ? "  asked  Kingsley,  again  with 
muffled  mockery. 

"  He  is  the  foe  of  slavery.  How  many, 
many  letters  I  hav^e  had  from  him !  He  will 
save  the  Soudan — and  Egypt  too. " 

"  He  will  be  badly  paid — the  Government 
will  stint  him.  And  he  will  give  away  his 
pay — if  he  gets  any." 

She  did  not  see  his  aim,  and  her  face  fell. 
"  He  will  succeed  for  all  that." 

"  He  can  levy  taxes,  of  course." 

"  But  he  will  not — ^for  himself" 

*'  I  will  give  him  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
if  he  will  take  it." 

"  You — you  ! — will  give  him "    Her  eyes 

swam  with  pleasure.  "  Ah,  that  is  noble !  That 
makes  wealth  a  glory,  to  give  it  to  those  who 
need  it.  To  save  those  who  are  down-trodden, 
to  help  those  who  labour  for  the  good  of  the 

world,   to "  she  stopped   short,   for  all  at 

once  she  remembered — remembered  whence 
his  money  came.  Her  face  suffused.  She 
turned  to  the  door.  Confusion  over-mastered 
her  for  the  moment.  Then,  anger  at  herself 
possessed  her.  On  what  enterprise  was  she 
now  embarked?  Where  was  her  conscience? 
For  what  was  she  doing  all  this  ?  What  was 
the  true  meaning  of  her  actions  ?  Had  it  been 
to  circumvent  the  Khedive  ?     To  prevent  him 

^89 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

from  doing  an  unjust,  a  despicable,  and  a 
dreadful  thing  ?  Was  it  only  to  help  the 
Soudan?  Was  it  but  to  serve  a  high  ideal, 
through  an  ideal  life — through  Gordon  ? 

It  came  upon  her  with  embarrassing  force. 
For  none  of  these  things  was  she  striving. 
She  was  doing  all  for  this  man,  against  whose 
influence  she  had  laboured,  whom  she  had 
bitterly  condemned,  and  whose  fortune  she 
had  called  blood -money  and  worse.  And 
now  .  .  .   ! 

She  knew  the  truth,  and  it  filled  her  heart  with 
joy  and  also  pain.  Then  she  caught  at  a  straw : 
he  was  no  slave-driver  now.      He  had 

"  May  I  not  help  you — go  with  you  to 
England  ?  "  he  said  over  her  shoulder. 

*'  Like  Alexander  Selkirk  '  I  shall  finish  my 
journey  alone,'"  she  said,  with  sudden  but  im- 
perfectly assumed  acerbity. 

"  Will  you  not  help  me,  then? "  he  asked. 
"  We  could  write  a  book  together." 

"  Oh,  a  book  !  "  she  said. 

"  A  book  of  life,"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no — can't  you  see? — oh,  you 
are  playing  me  like  a  ball !  " 

"  Only  to  catch  you,"  he  said,  in  a  happier 
tone. 

"  To  jest,  when  I  am  so  unhappy ! "  she 
murmured. 

290 


A   TYRANT  AND   A   LADY 

"  My  jest  is  the  true  word." 

She  made  a  last  rally.  "  Your  fortune  was 
made  out  of  slave  labour." 

"  I  have  given  up  the  slaves." 

"  You  have  the  fortune." 

"  I  will  give  it  all  to  you — to  have  your 
will  with  it.  Now  it  is  won,  I  would  give  it 
up  and  a  hundred  times  as  much  to  hear  you 
say,  '  Come  to  Skaw  Fell  again.' " 

Did  he  really  mean  it?  She  thought  he 
did.  And  it  seemed  the  only  way  out  of  the 
difficulty.     It  broke  the  impasse. 

It  was  not  necessary,  however,  to  spend 
the  future  in  the  way  first  suggested  to  her 
mind.  They  discussed  all  that  at  Skaw  Fell 
months  later. 

Human  nature  is  weak  and  she  has  become 
a  slave-driver,  after  all.  But  he  is  her  only 
slave,  and  he  hugs  his  bondage. 


291 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 


OOKING  from  the  minaret  the 
Two  could  see,  far  off,  the  Pyra- 
mids of  Ghizeh  and  Sakkara,  the 
wells  of  Helouan,  the  Mok- 
attam  Hills,  the  tombs  of 
the  Caliphs,  the  Khedive's 
palace  at  distant  Abbasiyeh. 
Nearer  by,  the  life  of  the  city 
was  spread  out.  Little  green 
oases  of  palms  emerged  from  the  noisy 
r^^^S'^-v  desert  of  white  stone  and  plaster.  The 
roofs  of  the  houses,  turned  into  gardens  and 
promenades,  made  of  tlie  huge  superficial  city 
one  broken  in*egular  pavement.  Minarets  of 
mosques  stood  up  like  giant  lamp-posts  along 
these  vast,  meandering  streets.  Shiftless  house- 
wives lolled  with  unkempt  hair  on  the  house- 
tops ;  women  of  the  harem  looked  out  of  the 
little  mushrabieh  panels  in  the  clattering,  nar- 
row bazaars. 

Just  at  their  feet  was  a  mosque — one  of  the 
thousand  nameless  mosques  of  Cairo.     It  was 

293 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

the   season   of  Ramadan,  and  a  Friday,  the 
Sunday  of  the  IMahommedan — the  Ghimah. 

The  "  Two "  were  Donovan  Pasha,  then 
English  Secretary  to  the  Khedive,  generally 
known  as  "  Little  Dicky  Donovan,"  and  Cap- 
tain Renshaw,  of  the  American  Consulate. 
There  was  no  man  in  Egypt  of  so  much  im- 
portance as  Donovan  Pasha.  It  was  an  im- 
portance which  could  neither  be  bought  nor 
sold. 

Presently  Dicky  touched  the  arm  of  his 
companion.     "  There  it  comes  !  "  he  said. 

His  friend  followed  the  nod  of  Dicky's  head, 
and  saw,  passing  slowly  through  a  street  be- 
low, a  funeral  procession.  Near  a  hundred 
blind  men  preceded  the  bier,  chanting  the 
death-phrases.  The  bier  was  covered  by  a 
faded  Persian  shawl,  and  it  was  carried  by  the 
poorest  of  the  Fellaheen,  though  in  the  crowd 
following  were  many  richly-attired  merchants 
of  the  bazaars.  On  a  cart  laden  with  bread 
and  rice  two  Fellaheen  stood  and  handed,  or 
tossed  out,  food  to  the  crowd — token  of  a 
death  in  high  places.  Vast  numbers  of  people 
rambled  behind  chanting,  and  a  few  women, 
near  the  bier,  tore  their  garments,  put  dust  on 
their  heads,  and  kept  crying  :  ''Salem  ala 
ahnli  I — Remember  us  to  our  friends  ! " 

Walking  immediately  behind  the  bier  was 
20  293 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

one  conspicuous  figure,  and  there  was  a  space 
around  him  which  none  invaded.  He  was 
dressed  in  white,  hke  an  Arabian  JNIahom- 
medan,  and  he  wore  the  green  turban  of  one 
who  has  been  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca. 

At  sight  of  him  Dicky  straightened  him- 
self with  a  little  jerk,  and  his  tongue  clicked 
with  satisfaction.  "  Isn't  he,  though  ?  isn't 
he  ? "  he  said,  after  a  moment.  His  lips, 
pressed  together,  curled  in  with  a  trick  they 
had  when  he  was  thinking  hard,  planning 
things. 

The  other  forbore  to  question.  The  not- 
able figure  had  instantly  arrested  his  attention, 
and  held  it  until  it  passed  from  view. 

"Isn't  he,  though,  Yankee?"  Dicky  re- 
peated, and  pressed  a  knuckle  tightly  in  the 
other's  waistcoat. 

"  Isn't  he  what  ?  " 

"  Isn't  he  bully — in  your  own  language  ?  " 

"In  figure;  but  I  couldn't  see  his  face  dis- 
tinctly." 

"  You'll  see  that  presently.  You  could  cut 
a  whole  Egyptian  Ministry  out  of  that  face, 
and  have  enougli  left  for  an  ^Vmerican  presi- 
dent or  the  head  of  the  Salvation  Army.  In 
all  the  years  I've  spent  licrc  I've  never  seen 
one  tliat  could  compare  with  him  in  nature, 
character,   and   force.     A    few    like    him    in 

£94) 


A  YOUNG  LION  OF  DEDAN 

Egypt,  and  there'd  be  no  need  for  the  money- 
barbers  of  Europe." 

"  He  seems  an  ooster  liere— you  know 
him?" 

"  Do  I !  "  Dicky  paused  and  squinted  up 
at  the  tall  Southerner.  "  What  do  you  sup- 
pose I  brought  you  out  from  your  Consulate 
for  to  see? — the  view  from  Ebn  Mahmoud? 
And  you  call  yourself  a  cute  Yankee  ?  " 

"  I'm  no  more  a  Yankee  than  you  are,  as 
I've  told  you  before,"  answered  the  American 
with  a  touch  of  impatience,  yet  smilingly. 
"  I'm  from  South  Carolina,  the  first  State  that 
seceded." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  call  you  Yankee, 
to  keep  you  nicely  disguised.  This  is  the  land 
of  disguises." 

"  Then  we  did  not  come  out  to  see  the 
view  ? "  the  other  drawled.  There  was  a 
quickening  of  the  eye,  a  drooping  of  the  lid, 
which  betrayed  a  sudden  interest,  a  sense  of 
adventure. 

Dicky  laid  his  head  back  and  laughed  noise- 
lessly. "  My  dear  Renshaw,  with  all  Europe 
worrying  Ismail,  with  France  in  the  butler's 
pantry  and  England  at  the  front  door,  do  the 
bowab  and  the  sarraf  go  out  to  take  air  on  the 
housetops,  and  watch  the  sun  set  on  the  Pyra- 
mids and  make  a  rainbow  of  the  desert  ?     I 

295 


A  YOUNG  LION.  OF  DEDAN 

am  the  bowab  and  the  sarraf,  the  man-of-all- 
work,  the  Jack-of-all-trades,  the  '  confidential ' 
to  the  Oriental  spendthrift.  Am  I  a  dog  to 
bay  at  the  moon  ? — have  I  the  soul  of  a  tourist 
from  Ijiverpool  or  Poughkeepsie  ?  " 

The  lanky  Southerner  gripped  his  arm. 
*'  There's  a  hunting  song  of  the  South,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  last  line  is,  '  The  hound  that  never 
tires.''    You  are  that,  Donovan  Pasha " 

"  I  am  '  little  Dicky  Donovan,'  so  they  say," 
interrupted  the  other. 

"  You  are  the  weight  that  steadies  things  in 
this  shaky  Egypt.  You  are  you,  and  you've 
brought  me  out  here  because  there's  work  of 
some  kind  to  do,  and  because " 

"  And  because  you're  an  American,  and  we 
speak  the  same  language." 

"  And  our  Consulate  is  all  right,  if  needed, 
whatever  it  is.  You've  played  a  square  game 
in  Egypt.  You're  the  only  man  in  office  who 
hasn't  got  rich  out  of  her,  and " 

"  I'm  not  in  office." 

"  You're  the  power  behind  the  throne, 
you're " 

"  I'm  helpless — worse  than  helpless,  Yankee. 
I've  spent  years  of  my  life  here.  I've  tried  to 
be  of  some  use,  and  play  a  good  game  for 
England ;  and  keep  a  conscience  too,  but  it's 
been  no  real  good.     I've  only  staved  off  the 

296 


A  YOUNG  WON   OF  DEDAN 

crash.  I'm  helpless  now.  That's  why  I'm 
here." 

He  leaned  forward,  and  looked  out  of  the 
minaret  and  down  towards  the  great  locked 
gates  of  the  empty  mosque. 

Renshaw  put  his  hand  on  Dicky's  shoulder. 
"  It's  the  man  in  white  yonder  you're  after  ?  " 

Dicky  nodded.  "  It  was  no  use  as  long  as 
she  lived.  But  she's  dead — her  face  was  under 
that  old  Persian  shawl — and  I'm  going  to  try 

on. 

"  Try  what  on  ? " 

"  Last  night  I  heard  she  was  sick.  I  heard 
at  noon  to-day  that  she  was  gone;  and  then  I 
got  you  to  come  out  and  see  the  view ! " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ? " 

"Make  him  come  back." 

"  From  where  ?  " 

"  From  the  native  quarter  and  the  bazaars. 
He  was  for  years  in  Abdin  Palace." 

"  What  do  you  want  him  for  ?  " 

"  It's  a  little  gamble  for  Egypt.  There's 
no  man  in  Egypt  Ismail  loves  and  fears  so 
much " 

"  Except  little  Dicky  Donovan  ! " 

"  That's  all  twaddle.  There's  no  man  Is- 
mail fears  so  much,  because  he's  the  idol  of 
the  cafes  and  the  bazaars.  He's  the  Egyptian 
in  Egypt  to-day.     You  talk  about  me  ?    Why, 

297 


A  YOUNG  LION  -OF  DEDAN 

I'm  the  foreigner,  the  Turk,  the  robber,  the 
man  that  holds  the  lash  over  Egypt.  I'd  go 
like  a  wisp  of  straw  if  there  was  an  uprising." 

"  Will  there  be  an  uprising  ? "  The  South- 
erner's fingers  moved  as  though  they  were 
feeling  a  pistol. 

"  As  sure  as  that  pyramid  stands.  Every- 
thing depends  on  the  kind  of  uprising.  I 
want  one  kind.     There  may  be  another." 

"  That's  what  you  are  here  for  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  Who  is  he  ? " 

"  Wait." 

"  What  is  his  story  ? " 

"  She  was."  He  nodded  towards  the  fu- 
neral procession. 

"  Who  was  she  ?  " 

"  She  was  a  slave."  Then,  after  a  pause, 
"  She  was  a  genius  too.  She  saw  what  was  in 
him.  She  was  waiting — but  death  couldn't 
wait,  so  .  .  .  Everything  depends.  What 
she  asked  him  to  do,  he'll  do." 

"  15ut  if  slie  didn't  ask  ?  " 

"  That's  it.  She  was  sick  only  seventeen 
hours — sick  unto  death.  If  she  didn't  ask,  he 
may  come  my  way." 

^Vgain  Dicky  leaned  out  of  the  minaret,  and 
looked  down  toAvards  the  gates  of  tlie  mosque, 
where  tlic  old  gatekeeper  lounged  half-asleep. 

298 


A  YOUNG   LION   OF  DEDAN 

The  noise  of  the  procession  had  died  away 
almost,  had  then  revived,  and  from  beyond 
the  gates  of  the  mosque  could  be  heard  the 
cry  of  the  mourners  :  "  Salem  ala  ahciU  !  " 

There  came  a  knocking,  and  the  old  porter 
rose  up,  shuffled  to  the  great  gates,  and  opened. 
For  a  moment  he  barred  the  way,  but  when 
the  bearers  pointed  to  the  figure  in  white  he 
stepped  aside  and  salaamed  low. 

"  He's  stone  deaf,  and  hasn't  heard,  or  he'd 
have  let  her  in  fast  enough,"  said  Dicky. 

"  It's  a  ncAV  thing  for  a  woman  to  be  of  im- 
portance in  an  Oriental  country,"  said  Ren- 
shaw. 

"  Ah,  that's  it !  That's  where  her  power 
was.  She,  with  him,  could  do  anything.  He, 
with  her,  could  have  done  anything.  .  .  . 
Stand  back  there,  where  you  can't  be  seen — 
quick  !  "  added  Dicky  hurriedly. 

They  both  drew  into  a  corner. 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  too  late.  He  saw  me," 
added  Dicky. 

*'  I'm  afraid  he  did,"  said  Renshaw. 

"Never  mind.  It's  all  in  the  day's  work. 
He  and  I  are  all  right.  The  only  danger 
would  lie  in  the  crowd  discovering  us  in  this 
holy  spot,  where  the  INIuezzin  calls  to  prayer, 
and  giving  us  what  for,  before  he  could  inter- 
fere." 

299 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

"I'm  going  down  from  this  ' holy  spot,' " 
said  Renshaw,  and  suited  the  action  to  the 
word. 

"  Me  too,  Yankee,"  said  Dicky,  and  they 
came  half  way  down  the  tower.  From  this 
point  they  watched  the  burial,  still  well  above 
the  heads  of  the  vast  crowd,  through  which 
the  sweetmeat  and  sherbet-sellers  ran,  calling 
their  wares  and  jangling  their  brass  cups. 

'*  What  is  his  name? "  said  Renshaw. 

"Abdalla." 

"  Hers  ?  " 

"  Noor-ala-Noor." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ? " 

"  Light  from  the  Light." 

II 

The  burial  was  over.  Hundreds  had  touched 
the  coffin,  taking  a  last  farewell.  The  blind 
men  had  made  a  gircle  round  the  grave,  hid- 
ing the  last  act  of  ritual  from  the  multitude. 
The  needful  leaves,  the  graceful  pebbles,  had 
been  deposited,  tlie  myrtle  leaves  and  flowers 
had  been  thrown,  and  rice,  dates,  bread,  meat, 
and  silver  pieces  were  scattered  among  the 
people.  Some  poor  men  came  near  to  the 
chief  mourner. 

' '  Oh,  cflendi ;  may  our  souls  be  thy  sacri- 
300 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

lice,  and  may  God  give  coolness  to  thine  eyes, 
speak  to  us  by  the  will  of  God !  " 

For  a  moment  the  white-robed  figure  stood 
looking  at  them  in  silence ;  then  he  raised  his 
hand  and  motioned  towards  the  high  pulpit, 
which  was  almost  underneath  the  place  where 
Dicky  and  Renshaw  stood.  Going  over,  he 
mounted  the  steps,  and  the  people  followed 
and  crowded  upon  the  pulpit. 

"A  nice  jack-pot  that,"  said  Renshaw,  as 
he  scanned  the  upturned  faces  through  the 
opening  in  the  wall.  "A  pretty  one-eyed 
lot." 

"  Shows  how  they  love  their  country. 
Their  eyes  were  put  out  by  their  mothers 
when  they  were  babes,  to  avoid  conscription. 
.  .  .  Listen,  Yankee :  Egypt  is  talking.  Now, 
we'll  see !  " 

Dicky's  lips  were  pressed  tight  together, 
and  he  stroked  his  faint  moustache  with  a 
thumb-nail  meditatively.  His  eyes  were  not 
on  the  speaker,  but  on  the  distant  sky,  the 
INIokattam  Hills  and  the  forts  Napoleon  had 
built  there.  He  was  listening  intently  to  Ab- 
dalla's  high,  clear  voice,  which  rang  through 
the  courts  of  the  ruined  mosque. 

"  In  the  name  of  God  the  Compassionate, 
the  Merciful,  children  of  Egypt,  listen.  INIe 
ye  have  known  years  without  number,  and  ye 

301 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

know  that  I  am  of  you,  as  ye  are  of  me.  Our 
feet  are  in  the  same  shoes,  we  gather  from  the 
same  date-pahn,  of  the  same  goolah  we  drink. 
My  father's  father — now  in  the  bosom  of  God, 
praise  be  to  God ! — builded  this  mosque ;  and 
my  father,  whose  soul  abides  in  peace  with 
God,  he  cherished  it  till  evil  days  came  upon 
this  land.  '  Be  your  gifts  to  tJtis  mosque  neither 
of  silver  nor  copper,  but  of  tears  and  prayers^* 
said  my  father,  Ebn  Abdalla,  e'er  he  unrolled 
his  gi'een  turban  and  w^ound  himself  in  it  for 
his  wdnding-sheet.  '  Tliough  it  be  till  the  Ka- 
r'adh'gathe?^ers  return,  yet  shall  ye  replace  nor 
stone  nor  piece  ofxvood,  save  i?i  the  gates  thei'e- 
of,  till  good  days  come  once  more,  and  the  infi- 
del and  the  Turk  be  driven  from  the  land,^ 
Thus  spake  my  father.  ..." 

There  came  a  stir  and  a  murmuring  among 
the  crowd,  and  cries  of  ^illah  Ahbar  !  "  Peace, 
peace ! "  urged  the  figure  in  white.  "  Nay, 
make  no  noise.  This  is  the  house  of  the  dead, 
of  one  who  hatli  seen  God.  .  .  .  ^Nothing 
shall  be  repaired,  save  the  gates  of  the  mosque 
of  Kbn  MaJiuioud,  the  mosque  of  my  fathers 
father,^  so  said  my  father.  .^Vlso  said  he,  *  And 
one  shall  stand  at  the  gates  and  watch,  though 
the  rvalls  crumble  azvay,  till  the  day  tvhe?i  the 
land  shall  again  be  our  land,  and  the  chains  of 
the  stranger  be  forged  in  every  doorzvay.*  .  .  . 

302 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

But  no,  ye  shall  not  lift  up  your  voices  in 
anger.  This  is  the  abode  of  peace,  and  the 
mosque  is  my  mosque,  and  the  dead  my 
dead." 

"  The  dead  is  our  dead,  efFendi — may  God 
give  thee  everlasting  years ! "  called  a  blind 
man  from  the  crowd. 

Up  in  the  tower  Dicky  had  listened  intent- 
ly, and  as  the  speech  proceeded  his  features 
contracted;  once  he  gripped  the  arm  of  Ren- 
shaw. 

"  It's  coming  on  to  blow,"  he  said,  in  the 
pause  made  by  the  blind  man's  interruption. 
*'  There'll  be  shipwreck  somewhere." 

"  Ye  know  the  way  by  which  I  came,"  con- 
tinued Abdalla  loudly.  "  Nothing  is  hid  from 
you.  I  came  near  to  the  person  of  the  Prince, 
whom  God  make  wise  while  yet  the  stars  of 
his  life  give  light!  In  the  palace  of  Abdin 
none  was  preferred  before  me.  I  was  much 
in  the  sun,  and  mine  eyes  were  dazzled.  Yet 
in  season  I  spake  the  truth,  and  for  you  I 
laboured.  But  not  as  one  hath  a  life  to  give 
and  seeks  to  give  it.  For  the  dazzle  that  was 
in  mine  eyes  hid  from  me  the  fulness  of  your 
trials.  But  an  end  there  was  to  these  things. 
She  came  to  the  palace  a  slave — Noor-ala- 
Noor.  .  .  .  Nay,  nay,  be  silent  still,  my 
brothers.     Her  soul  was  the  soul  of  one  born 

303 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

free.  On  her  lips  was  wisdom.  In  her  heart 
was  truth  hke  a  flaming  sword.  To  the  Prince 
she  spoke  not  as  a  slave  to  a  slave,  but  in  high 
level  terms.  He  would  have  married  her,  but 
her  life  lay  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand,  and  the 
hand  was  a  hand  to  open  and  shut  according 
as  the  soul  willed.  She  was  ready  to  close  it 
so  that  none  save  Allah  might  open  it  again. 
Then  in  anger  the  Prince  would  have  given 
her  to  his  bowab  at  the  gates,  or  to  the  Nile, 
after  the  manner  of  a  Turk  or  a  Persian  ty- 
rant— may  God  purge  him  of  his  loathsome- 
ness !  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  as  though  choking  with  passion 
and  grief,  and  waved  a  hand  over  the  crowd 
in  agitated  command. 

"  Here's  the  old  sore  open  at  last — which 
way  now  ?  "  said  Dicky  in  a  whisper.  "  It's 
the  toss  of  a  penny  where  he'll  pull  up.  As  I 
thought  .  .  .  'Sh ! "  he  added,  as  llenshaw 
was  about  to  speak. 

Abdalla  continued.  "Then  did  I  stretch 
forth  my  hand,  and,  because  I  loved  her,  a 
slave  with  the  freedom  of  God  in  her  soul  and 
on  her  face,  I  said,  *  Come  with  me,'  and  be- 
hold !  she  came,  without  a  word,  for  our  souls 
spake  to  each  other,  as  it  was  in  the  olden 
world,  ere  the  hearts  of  men  were  darkened. 
I,  an  Egyptian  of  a  despised  and  down-trod- 

304 


A  YOUNG   LION   OF  DEDAN 

den  land,  where  all  men  save  the  rich  are 
slaves,  and  the  rich  go  in  the  fear  of  their 
lives ;  she,  a  woman  from  afar,  of  that  ancient 
tribe  who  conquered  Egypt  long  ago — we 
went  forth  from  the  palace  alone  and  penni- 
less. He,  the  Prince,  dared  not  follow  to  do 
me  harm,  for  my  father's  father  ye  knew,  and 
my  father  ye  knew,  and  me  ye  knew  since  I 
came  into  the  world,  and  in  all  that  we  had  ye 
shared  while  yet  we  had  to  give ;  yea,  and  he 
feared  ye.  We  lived  among  ye,  poor  as  ye 
are  poor,  yet  rich  for  that  Egypt  was  no 
poorer  because  of  us."  He  waved  his  hand  as 
though  to  still  the  storm  he  was  raising.  .  .  . 
"If  ye  call  aloud,  I  will  drive  ye  from  this 
place  of  peace,  this  garden  of  her  who  was 
called  Light  from  the  Light.  It  hath  been  so 
until  yesterday,  when  God  stooped  and  drew 
the  veil  from  her  face,  and  she  dropped  the 
garment  of  hfe  and  fled  from  the  world.  .  .  . 
Go,  go  hence,"  he  added,  his  voice  thick  with 
sorrow.  "  But  ere  ye  go,  answer  me,  as  ye 
have  souls  that  desire  God  and  the  joys  of 
Paradise,  will  ye  follow  where  I  go,  when  I 
come  to  call  ye  forth  ?  Will  ye  obey,  if  I 
command  ? " 

"  By  the  will  of  God,  thou  hast  purchased 
our  hearts ;  we  will  do  thy  will  for  ever,"  was 
the  answer  of  the  throng. 

305 


A   YOUNG   LION    OF  DEDAN 

"  Go  then,  bring  down  the  infidels  that  have 
stood  in  the  minaret  above,  where  the  Muez- 
zin calls  to  prayer ; "  sharply  called  Abdalla, 
and  waved  an  arm  towards  the  tower  where 
Dicky  and  Renshaw  were. 

An  oath  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  South- 
erner; but  Dicky  smiled.  "He's  done  it  in 
style,"  he  said.  "  Come  along."  He  bounded 
down  the  steps  to  the  doorway  before  the 
crowd  had  blocked  the  way.  *'  They  might 
toss  us  out  of  that  minaret,"  he  added,  as  they 
both  pushed  their  way  into  the  open. 

"  You  take  too  many  risks,  effendi,"  he 
called  up  to  Abdalla  in  French,  as  excited 
Arabs  laid  hands  upon  them,  and  were  shak- 
en off.  * '  Call  away  these  fools  !  "  he  added 
coolly  to  the  motionless  figure  watching  from 
the  pulpit  stairs. 

Cries  of  "Kill!  kill  the  infidels!"  re- 
sounded on  all  sides  ;  but  13icky  called  up 
again  to  Abdalla.  "  Stop  this  nonsense, 
effendi."  Then,  without  awaiting  an  answer, 
he  shouted  to  the  crowd :  "  I  am  Donovan 
Pasha.  Touch  mc,  and  you  touch  Ismail.  I 
haven't  come  to  spy,  but  to  sorrow  with  you 
for  Noor-ala-Noor,  whose  soul  is  with  God, 
praise  be  to  God,  and  may  Ciod  give  her  spirit 
to  you  I  I  have  come  to  weep  for  him  in 
whom  greatness  speaks ;  I  have  come  for  love 

306 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

of  Abdalla  the  Egyptian.  ...  Is  it  a  sin 
to  stand  apart  in  silence  and  to  weep  un- 
seen ?  Was  it  a  sin  against  the  JMoslem  faith 
that  in  this  minaret  I  prayed  God  to  comfort 
Abdalla,  grandson  of  Ebn  IVIahmoiid,  Egyp- 
tian of  the  Egyptians  ?  Was  it  not  I  who 
held  Ismail's  hand,  when  he — being  in  an 
anger — would  have  scoured  the  bazaars  with 
his  horsemen  for  Abdalla  and  Noor-ala-Noor  ? 
This  is  known  to  Abdalla,  whom  God  pre- 
serve and  exalt.  Is  not  Abdalla  friend  to 
Donovan  Pasha?  " 

Dicky  was  known  to  hundreds  present. 
There  was  not  a  merchant  from  the  bazaars 
but  had  had  reason  to  appreciate  his  presence, 
either  by  friendly  gossip  over  a  cup  of  coffee, 
or  by  biting  remarks  in  Arabic,  when  they 
bed  to  him,  or  by  the  sweep  of  his  stick  over 
the  mastaba  and  through  the  chattels  of  some 
vile- mouthed  pedlar  who  insulted  English 
ladies  whom  he  was  escorting  through  the 
bazaar.  They  knew  his  face,  his  tongue,  and 
the  weight  and  style  of  his  arm  ;  and  though 
they  would  cheerfully  have  seen  him  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  Jehad  to  the  cry  of  Alldhu  Ahhar  ! 
they  respected  him  for  himself,  and  they 
feared  him  because  he  was  near  to  the  person 
of  Ismail. 

He  was  the  more  impressive  because  in  the 
307 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

midst  of  wealth  and  splendour  he  remained 
poor  :  he  had  more  than  once  bought  tur- 
quoises and  opals  and  horses  and  saddlery, 
which  he  paid  for  in  instalments,  like  any 
little  merchant.  These,  therefore,  who  knew 
him,  were  well  inclined  to  leave  him  alone, 
and  those  who  did  not  know  him  were  im- 
pressed by  his  speech.  If  it  was  true  that  he 
was  friend  to  Abdalla,  then  his  fate  was  in 
the  hand  of  God,  not  theirs.  They  all  had 
heard  of  little  Donovan  Pasha,  whom  Ismail 
counted  only  less  than  Gordon  Pasha,  the 
mad  Englishman,  who  emptied  his  pocket  for 
an  old  servant,  gave  his  coat  to  a  beggar,  and 
rode  in  the  desert  so  fast  that  no  Arab  could 
overtake  him. 

"  Call  off  your  terriers,  effendi,"  said  Dicky 
again  in  French ;  for  Renshaw  was  restive 
under  the  hands  that  were  laid  on  his  arm, 
and  the  naboots  that  threatened  him.  "  My 
friend  here  is  American.  He  stands  for  the 
United  States  in  Egypt." 

Abdalla  had  not  moved  a  muscle  during  the 
disturbance,  or  during  Dicky's  speech.  He 
seemed  but  the  impassive  spectator,  though 
his  silence  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  were 
ominous.  It  would  appear  as  though  he 
waited  to  see  whether  tlic  Englishman  and 
his  friend  could  free  themselves  from  danger. 

308 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

If  they  could,  then  it  was  God's  will ;  if  they 
could  not,  3Ialaish !  Dicky  understood.  In 
this  he  read  Abdalla  like  a  parchment,  and 
though  he  had  occasion  to  be  resentful,  he 
kept  his  nerves  and  his  tongue  in  an  equable 
mood.  He  knew  that  Abdalla  would  speak 
now.     The  Egyptian  raised  his  hand. 

"  In  the  name  of  Allah  the  Compassionate, 
the  INlerciful,  go  your  ways,"  he  said  loudly. 
"  It  is  as  Donovan  Pasha  says,  he  stayed  the 
hand  of  Ismail  for  my  sake.  Noor-ala-Xoor, 
the  Light  from  the  Light,  saw  into  his  heart, 
and  it  was  the  honest  heart  of  a  fool.  And 
these  are  the  words  of  the  Koran,  That  the 
fool  is  one  whom  God  has  made  His  temple 
for  a  season,  thereafter  withdrawing.  None 
shall  inj  ure  the  temple.  Were  not  your  hearts 
bitter  against  him,  and  when  he  spoke  did  ye 
not  soften  ?  He  hath  no  inheritance  of  Para- 
dise, but  God  shall  blot  him  out  in  His  own 
time.  Bismillah  !  God  cool  his  resting-place 
in  that  day.  Donovan  Pasha's  hand  is  for 
Egypt,  not  against  her.  We  are  brothers, 
though  the  friendship  of  man  is  like  the  shade 
of  the  acacia.  Yet  while  the  fi'iendship  lives,  it 
lives.  When  God  wills  it  to  die,  it  dies.  ..." 
He  waved  his  hand  towards  the  gateway,  and 
came  slowly  down  the  steep  steps. 

With  a  curious  look  in  his  eyes,  Dicky 
21  309 


A   YOUNG   LION   OF  DEDAN 

watched  the  people  go.  Another  curious  look 
displaced  it  and  stayed,  as  Abdallah  silently 
touched  his  forehead,  his  lips  and  his  heart 
three  times,  and  then  reached  out  a  hand  to 
Dicky  and  touched  his  palm.  Three  times 
they  touched  palms,  and  then  Abdalla  saluted 
Renshaw  in  the  same  fashion,  making  the  gest- 
ures once  only. 

From  the  citadel  came  the  boom  of  the 
evening  gun.  Without  a  word  Abdalla  left 
them,  and,  going  apart,  he  turned  his  face 
toward  Mecca  and  began  his  prayers.  The 
courtyard  of  the  mosque  was  now  empty,  save 
for  themselves  alone. 

The  two  walked  apart  near  the  deserted 
fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard. 
''The  JriendsMp  of  man  is  like  the  shade  of  the 
acacia.  Yet  while  the  friendship  lives,  it  lives. 
JVJien  God  wills  it  to  die,  it  dies ! "  mused 
Dicky  with  a  significant  smile.  "  Friendship 
walks  on  thin  ice  in  the  East,  Yankee." 

"  See  here,  Donovan  Fasha,  I  don't  like  taking 
this  kind  of  risk  without  a  gun,"  said  Renshaw. 

"You're  an  official,  a  diplomat;  you  can't 
carry  a  gun." 

"  It's  all  very  fine,  but  it  was  a  close  shave 
for  both  of  us.  You've  got  an  object — want  to 
get  something  out  of  it.  But  what  do  I  get 
for  my  money  ?  " 

310 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

"  Perhaps  the  peace  of  Europe.  Perhaps 
a  page  of  reminiscences  for  the  New  York 
Woi^ld.  Perhaps  some  hmelight  chapters  of 
Egyptian  history.  Perhaps  a  httle  hari-kari. 
Don't  you  feel  it  in  the  air?  "  Dicky  drew  in 
a  sibilant  breath.  "All  this  in  any  other 
country  would  make  you  think  you  were  hav- 
ing a  devil  of  a  time.  It's  on  the  regular 
'  menoo '  here,  and  you  don't  get  a  thrill." 

"  The  peace  of  Europe— Abdalla  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  that  ?  " 

"  ^lultiply  the  crowd  here  a  thousand  times 
as  much,  and  that's  what  he  could  represent  in 
one  day.  Give  him  a  month,  and  every  man 
in  Egypt  would  be  collecting  his  own  taxes 
where  he  could  find  'em.  Abdalla  there  could 
be  prophet  and  patriot  to-morrow,  and  so  he 
will  be  soon,  and  to  evil  ends,  if  things  don't 
take  a  turn.  That  Egyptian- Arab  has  a 
tongue,  he  has  brains,  he  has  sorrow,  he  loved 
Noor-ala-Noor.  Give  a  man  the  egotism  of 
grief,  and  eloquence,  and  popularity,  and  he'll 
cut  as  sharp  as  the  khamsin  wind.  The  dust 
he'll  raise  will  blind  more  eyes  than  you  can 
see  in  a  day's  march,  Yankee.  You  may  take 
my  word  for  it." 

Renshaw  looked  at  Dicky  thoughtfully. 
"  You're  wasting  your  life  here.  You'll  get 
nothing  out  of  it.     You're  a  great  man,  Don- 

311 


A   YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

ovan  Pasha,  but  others  '11  reap  where  you 
sowed." 

Dicky  laughed  softly.  "  I've  had  more  fun 
for  my  money  than  most  men  of  my  height 

and   hair "   he   stroked  his  beardless  chin 

humourously.  "  And  the  best  is  to  come, 
Yankee.  This  show  is  cracking.  The  au- 
dience are  going  to  rush  it." 

Renshaw  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Pasha,  to  tell  you  God's  truth,  I  wouldn't 
have  missed  this  for  anything;  but  what  I 
can't  make  out  is,  why  you  brought  me  here. 
You  don't  do  things  like  that  for  nothing. 
You  bet  you  don't.  You'd  not  put  another 
man  in  danger,  unless  he  was  going  to  get 
something  out  of  it,  or  somebody  was.  It  looks 
so  damned  useless.  You've  done  your  little 
job  by  your  lonesome,  anyhow.     I  was  no  use." 

"  Your  turn  comes,"  said  Dicky,  flashing  a 
look  of  friendly  humour  at  him.  "  America 
is  putting  her  hand  in  tlie  dough — through 
you.  You'll  know,  and  your  country'U  know, 
what's  going  on  here  in  tlie  hmn  of  the  dim 
bazaars.  Ismail's  got  to  see  how  things  stand, 
and  you've  got  to  help  me  tell  him.  You've 
got  to  say  I  tell  the  truth,  when  the  French 
gentlemen,  who  lia\'e  their  several  spokes  in 
tlie  Egyptian  wheel,  pohtcly  say  I  lie.  Is  it 
too  much,  or  too  little,  Yankee  ?  " 

SIS 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

Renshaw  almost  gulped.  "  By  Jerusalem  ! " 
was  all  he  could  say.  "  And  we  wonder  why 
the  English  swing  things  as  they  do ! "  he 
growled,  w^hen  his  breath  came  freely. 

Abdalla  had  finished  his  prayers;  he  was 
coming  towards  them.  Dicky  went  to  meet 
him. 

"Abdalla,  I'm  hungry,"  he  said;  "so  are 
you.  You've  eaten  nothing  since  sunset,  two 
days  ago." 

"  I  am  thirsty,  saadat  el  basha,"  he  an- 
swered, and  his  voice  was  husky.  "  Come,  I 
will  give  you  to  eat,  by  the  goodness  of  God." 

It  was  the  time  of  Ramadan,  when  no 
Mahommedan  eats  food  or  touches  liquid 
from  the  rising  to  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 
As  the  sunset-gun  boomed  from  the  citadel, 
lids  had  been  snatched  off  millions  of  cooking- 
pots  throughout  the  land,  and  fingers  had  been 
thrust  into  the  meat  and  rice  of  the  evening 
feast,  and  their  owner  had  gulped  down  a 
bowl  of  water.  The  smell  of  a  thousand 
cooking-pots  now  came  to  them  over  the 
walls  of  the  mosque.  Because  of  it,  Abdalla's 
command  to  the  crowd  to  leave  had  been 
easier  of  acceptance.  Their  hunger  had  made 
them  dangerous.  Danger  was  in  the  air.  The 
tax-gatherers  had  lately  gone  their  rounds,  and 
the  agents  of  the  Mouffetish  had  wielded  tlie 

313 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

kourbash  without  mercy  and  to  some  purpose. 
It  was  perhaps  kicky  that  the  incident  had 
occurred  within  smell  of  the  evening  feasts 
and  near  the  sounding  of  the  sunset-gun. 

Ill 

A  HALF-HOUR  later,  as  Abdalla  thrust  his 
fingers  into  the  dish  and  handed  Dicky  a  suc- 
culent cucumber  filled  with  fried  meat,  the 
latter  said  to  him :  "It  is  the  wish  of  the 
EfFendina,  my  friend.  It  comes  as  the  will 
of  God  ;  for  even  as  Noor-ala-Noor  journeyed 
to  the  bosom  of  God  by  your  will,  and  by 
your  prayers,  being  descended  from  JMahomet 
as  you  are,  even  then  Ismail,  who  knew  naught 
of  your  sorrow,  said  to  me,  '  In  all  Egypt  there 
is  one  man,  and  one  only,  for  whom  my  soul 
calls  to  go  into  the  desert  with  Gordon,'  and  I 
answered  him  and  said,  '  LislialhiJt,  Efiendina, 
it  is  Abdalla,  the  Egyptian.'  And  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  head — I  have  seen  him  do  that 
for  no  man  since  I  came  into  his  presence 
— and  said  :  '  My  soul  calls  for  him.  Find 
him  and  bid  him  to  come.  Here  is  my 
ring.' " 

Dicky  took  from  his  pocket  a  signet-ring, 
which  bore  a  passage   from  the    Koran,  and     i 
laid  it  beside  Abdalla's  drinking-bowl.  j 

314 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

*'  What  is  Ismail  to  me — or  the  far  tribes  of 
the  Soudan  !  Here  are  my  people,"  was  the 
reply.  Abdalla  motioned  to  the  next  room, 
where  the  blind  men  ate  their  evening  meal, 
and  out  to  the  dimly  lighted  streets  where 
thousands  of  narghilehs  and  cigarettes  made 
little  smoky  clouds  that  floated  around  white 
turbans  and  dark  faces.  "  When  they  need 
me,  I  will  speak  ;  wiien  they  cry  to  me,  I  will 
unsheathe  the  sword  of  Ebn  Mahmoud,  who 
fought  ^vith  JNIahomet  Ali  and  saved  the  land 
from  the  Turk." 

Renshaw  watched  the  game  ■\\^th  an  eager- 
ness unnoticeable  in  his  manner.  He  saw 
how  difficult  was  the  task  before  Dicky. 
He  saw  an  Oriental  conscious  of  his  power, 
whose  heart  was  bitter,  and  whose  soul,  in  its 
solitude,  revolted  and  longed  for  action.  It 
was  not  moved  by  a  pure  patriotism,  but  what 
it  was  moved  by  served.  That  dangerous 
temper,  which  would  have  let  Dicky  whom  he 
called  friend,  and  himself  go  down  under  the 
naboots  of  the  funeral  multitude,  with  a  Ma- 
iaish  on  his  tongue,  was  now  in  leash,  ready  to 
spring  forth  in  the  inspired  hour;  and  the 
justification  need  not  be  a  great  one.  Some 
shght  incident  might  set  him  at  the  head  of  a 
rabble  which  would  sweep  Cairo  like  a  storm. 
Yet  Renshaw  saw,  too,  that  once  immersed  in 

315 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

the  work  his  mind  determined  on,  the  Egyp- 
tian would  go  forward  with  relentless  force. 
In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Egypt  was  hanging  in  the  balance. 

Dicky  was  eating  sweetmeats  like  a  girl. 
He  selected  them  with  great  care.  Suddenly 
Abdalla  touched  his  hand.  "  Speak  on.  Let 
all  thy  thoughts  be  open — stay  not  to  choose, 
as  thou  dost  with  the  sweetmeats.  I  will 
choose  :  do  thou  offer  without  fear.  I  would 
not  listen  to  Ismail ;  to  thee  I  am  but  as  a 
waled  to  bear  thy  shoes  in  my  hand." 

Dicky  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  but  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  the  comfit  he  was  eating.  He 
rolled  it  over  his  tongue,  and  his  eyes  dwelt 
with  a  remarkable  simplicity  and  childlike 
friendliness  on  Abdalla.  It  was  as  though 
there  was  really  nothing  vital  at  stake.  .  .  . 
Yet  he  was  probing,  probing  without  avail, 
into  Abdalla's  mind  and  heart,  and  was  never 
more  at  sea  in  his  life.  It  was  not  even 
for  Donovan  Pasha  to  read  tlie  Oriental 
thoroughly.  This  man  before  him  had  the 
duplicity  or  evasion  of  tlie  Oriental ;  delicately 
in  proportion  to  his  great  ability,  yet  it  was 
there — though  in  less  degree  tlian  in  any  Arah 
he  had  ever  known.  It  was  tlie  more  danger- 
ous because  so  subtle.  It  held  surprise — it 
was  an  unknown   quantity.     The   most  that 

316 


A  YOUNG  LION  OF  DEDAN 

Dicky  could  do  was  to  feel  subtly  before  him 
a  certain  cloud  of  the  unexpected.  He  was 
not  sure  that  he  deceived  Abdalla  by  his  sim- 
ple manner,  yet  that  made  little  difference. 
The  Oriental  would  think  not  less  of  him  for 
dissimulation,  but  rather  more.  He  reached 
over  and  put  a  comfit  in  the  hand  of  Ab- 
dalla. 

"  Let  us  eat  together,"  he  said,  and  dropped 
a  comfit  into  his  own  mouth. 

Abdalla  ate,  and  Dicky  dipped  his  fingers  in 
the  basin  before  them,  saying,  as  he  lifted 
them  again  :  "  I  will  speak  as  to  my  brother. 
Ismail  has  staked  all  on  the  Soudan.  If,  in 
the  will  of  God,  he  is  driven  from  Berber, 
from  Dongola,  from  Khartoum,  from  Darfur, 
from  Kassala,  his  power  is  gone.  Egypt  goes 
down  like  the  sun  at  evening.  Ismail  will  be 
like  a  withered  gourd.  To  establish  order  and 
peace  and  revenue  there,  he  is  sending  the 
man  his  soul  loves,  whom  the  nations  trust,  to 
the  cities  of  the  desert.  If  it  be  well  with 
Gordon,  it  will  be  well  with  the  desert-cities. 
But  Gordon  asks  for  one  man — an  Egyptian 
— who  loves  the  land  and  is  of  the  people,  to 
speak  for  him,  to  counsel  with  him,  to  show 
the  desert  tribes  that  Egypt  gives  her  noblest 
to  rule  and  serve  them.  There  is  but  one 
man — Abdalla,  the  Egyptian.      A  few  years 

317 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

yonder  in  the  desert — power,  glory,  wealth 
won  for  Egypt,  the  strength  of  thine  arms 
kno^vn,  the  piety  of  thy  spirit  proven,  thy 
name  upon  every  tongue — on  thy  return,  who 
then  should  fear  for  Egypt? " 

Dicky  was  playing  a  dangerous  game,  and 
Renshaw  almost  shrank  fi-om  his  words.  He 
was  firing  the  Egyptian's  mind,  but  to  what 
course  he  knew  not.  If  to  the  Soudan,  well ; 
if  to  remain,  what  conflagration  might  not 
occur  !     Dicky  staked  all. 

"  Here,  once  more,  among  thy  people,  re- 
turned from  conquest  and  the  years  of  pilgrim- 
age in  the  desert,  like  a  prophet  of  old,  thy 
zeal  would  lead  the  people,  and  once  more 
Egypt  should  bloom  like  the  rose.  Thou 
wouldst  be  sirdar,  moufFetish,  pasha,  all  things 
soever.  This  thou  wouldst  be  and  do,  thou, 
Abdalla  the  Egyptian." 

Dicky  had  made  his  gi'cat  throw;  and  he 
sat  back,  perhaps  a  little  paler  than  was  his 
wont,  but  apparently  serene,  and  earnest  and 
steady. 

The  effect  upon  Abdalla  could  only  be 
judged  by  his  eyes,  which  burned  like  fire  as 
they  fixed  upon  Dicky's  face.  The  suspense 
was  painful,  for  he  did  not  speak  for  a  long 
time,  llenshaw  could  have  shrieked  with 
excitement.     Dicky   lighted   a   cigarette   and 

318 


A  YOUNG  LION   OF  DEDAN 

tossed  a  comfit  at  a  pariah  dog.  At  last  Ab- 
dalla  rose.     Dicky  rose  with  him. 

"  Thou,  too,  hast  a  great  soul,  or  mine  eyes 
are  liars,"  Abdalla  said.  "  Thou  lovest  Egypt 
also.  This  Gordon— I  am  not  his  friend.  I 
will  not  go  with  him.  But  if  thou  goest  also 
with  Gordon,  then  I  will  go  with  thee.  If 
thou  dost  mean  well  by  Egypt,  and  thy  words 
are  true,  thou  also  wilt  go.  As  thou  speakest, 
let  it  be." 

A  mist  came  before  Dicky's  eyes — the  world 
seemed  falling  into  space,  his  soul  was  in  a 
crucible.  The  struggle  was  like  that  of  a  man 
with  death,  for  this  must  change  the  course 
of  his  life,  to  what  end  God  only  knew.  All 
that  he  had  been  to  Egypt,  all  that  Egypt  had 
been  to  him  came  to  him.  But  he  knew  that 
he  must  not  pause.  Now  was  his  moment, 
and  now  only.  Before  the  mist  had  cleared 
from  his  eyes  he  gave  his  hand  into  Abdalla's. 

"  In  God's  name,  so  be  it.  I  also  will  go 
with  Gordon,  and  thou  with  me,"  he  said. 


319 


HE  WOULD  NOT  BE  DENIED 

E  was  achin'  for  it — tumble 
achin'  for  it — an'  he  would 
not  be  denied  ! "  said   Ser- 
geant William  Connor,  of 
the  Berkshire  Regiment,  in 
the  sergeants'  mess  at  Suakim, 
2—  two  nights  before  the  attack 
on  McNeill's  zeriba  at  Tofrik. 
"  Serve '  im  right.     Janders 
'  was    too    bloomin'    suddint," 

skirled    Henry   Withers   of  the    Sick    Horse 
Depot  from  the  bottom  of  the  table. 

' '  Too  momentary,  I  believe  you,"  said  Cor- 
poral Billy  Bagshot. 

At  the  Sick  Horse  Depot  Connor  had,  with- 
out good  cause,  made  some  disparaging  re- 
marks upon  the  charger  ridden  by  Subadar 
Goordit  Singh  at  the  fight  at  Dihilbat  Hill, 
which  towers  over  the  village  of  Hashin. 
Subadar  Goordit  Singh  heard  the  remarks, 
and,  loving  his  welted,  gibbet-headed  charger 
as  AVilliam  Connor  loved  any  woman  who 
came  his  way,  he  spat  upon  the  ground  the  ser- 

320 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

geant's  foot  covered,  and  made  an  evil- smiling 
remark.  Thereupon  Connor  laid  siege  to  the 
white-toothed,  wild-bearded  Sikh  with  words 
which  suddenly  came  to  renown,  and  left  not 
a  shred  of  glory  to  the  garment  of  vanity  the 
hillman  wore. 

He  insinuated  that  the  Sikh's  horse  was 
wounded  at  Hashin  from  behind  by  backing 
too  far  on  the  Guards'  Brigade  on  one  side 
and  on  the  Royal  JNIounted  Infantry  on  the 
other.  This  was  ungenerous  and  it  was  not 
true,  for  William  Connor  knew  well  the  repu- 
tation of  the  Sikhs ;  but  William's  blood  was 
up,  and  the  smile  of  the  Subadar  was  hateful 
in  his  eyes.  The  truth  was  that  the  Berkshire 
Regiment  had  had  its  chance  at  Dihilbat  Hill 
and  the  Sikhs  had  not.  But  William  Connor 
refused  to  make  a  distinction  between  two 
squadrons  of  Bengal  Cavalry  which  had  been 
driven  back  upon  the  Guards'  square  and  the 
Sikhs  who  fretted  on  their  bits,  as  it  were. 

The  Berkshire  Regiment  had  done  its  work 
in  gallant  style  up  the  steep  slopes  of  Dihilbat, 
had  cleared  the  summit  of  Osman  Digna's  men, 
and  followed  them  with  a  raking  fire  as  they 
retreated  wildly  into  the  mimosa  bushes  on 
the  plain.  The  Berksliires  were  not  by  nature 
proud  of  stomach,  but  Connor  was  a  popu- 
lar man,  and  the  incident  of  the  Sick  Horse 

321 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

Depot,  as  reported  by  Corporal  Bagshot,  who 
kept  a  diary  and  a  dictionary,  tickled  their 
imagination,  and  tliey  went  forth  and  swag- 
gered before  the  Indian  Native  Contingent, 
singing  a  song  made  by  Bagshot  and  trans- 
lated into  Irish  idiom  by  William  Connor. 
The  song  was  meant  to  humiliate  the  Indian 
Native  Contingent,  and  the  Sikhs  writhed 
under  the  raillery  and  looked  black — so  black 
that  word  was  carried  to  McNeill  himself, 
who  sent  orders  to  the  officers  of  the  Berk- 
shire Regiment  to  give  the  offenders  a  dress- 
ing down ;  for  the  Sikhs  were  not  Fellaheen, 
to  be  heckled  with  impunity. 

That  was  why,  twenty-four  hours  after  the 
offending  song  was  made,  it  was  suppressed; 
and  in  the  sergeants'  mess  William  Connor 
told  the  story  how,  an  hour  before,  he  had 
met  Subadar  Goordit  Singh  in  the  encamp- 
ment, and  the  Subadar  in  a  rage  at  the  grin 
on  Connor's  face  had  made  a  rush  at  him, 
which  the  Irishman  met  with  his  foot,  spoil- 
ing his  wind.  That  had  ended  the  incident 
for  the  moment,  for  the  Sikh  remembered  in 
time,  and  William  Connor  had  been  escorted 
"  Berkshire  way "  by  Corporal  Bagshot  and 
Henry  W^ithers.  As  the  tale  was  told  over 
and  over  again,  there  came  softly  from  the 
lips  of  the  only  other  Irishman  in  the  regi- 

32^ 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

ment,  Jimmy  Coolin,  a  variant  verse  of  the 
song  that  the  great  McNeill  had  stopped : 

**  Where  is  the  shame  of  it. 
Where  was  the  blame  of  it, 
WilHam  Connor  dear  ?  " 

It  was  well  for  Graham,  Hunter,  McNeill, 
and  their  brigades  that  William  Connor  and 
the  Berkshires  and  the  Subadar  Goordit  Singh 
had  no  idle  time  in  which  to  sear  their  difficul- 
ties, for,  before  another  khamsin  gorged  the 
day  with  cutting  dust,  every  department  of 
the  Service,  from  the  Commissariat  to  the  Bal- 
loon Detachment,  was  filling  marching  orders. 
There  was  a  collision,  but  it  was  the  agreeable 
collision  of  preparation  for  a  fight,  for  it  was 
ordained  that  the  Berkshires  and  the  Sikhs 
should  go  shoulder  to  shoulder  to  establish  a 
post  in  the  desert  between  Suakim  and  Tamai. 

"  D'ye  hear  that,  William  Connor  dear  ? " 
said  Private  Coolin  when  the  orders  came. 
"  An'  y'll  have  Subadar  Goordit  Singh  with 
his  kahars  and  his  bhistis  and  his  dhooly  bearers 
an'  his  Lushai  dandies  an'  his  bloomin'  bullock- 
carts  steppin'  on  y'r  tail  as  ye  travel,  Misther 
Connor ! " 

' '  Me  tail  is  the  tail  of  a  kangaroo ;  I'm 
strongest  where  they  tread  on  me,  Coolin," 
answered  Connor.     "An'  drinkin'  the  divil's 

323 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

chlorides  from  the  tins  of  the  mangy  dhrome- 
dairy  has  turned  me  insides  into  a  foundry. 
I'm  metal-plated,  Coolin." 

"  So  ye'U  need  if  ye  meet  the  Subadar  be- 
tune  the  wars  !  " 

"  Go  back  to  y'r  condinsation,  Coolin. 
Bring  water  to  the  thirsty  be  gravitation  an'  a 
four-inch  main,  an'  shtrengthen  the  sowl  of  the 
Subadar  wid  hay  cake,  for  he'll  want  it  agin 
the  day  he  laves  Tamai  behind !  Go  back  to 
y'r  condinsation,  Coolin,  an'  take  truth  to  y'r 
soul  that  there's  many  ways  to  die,  an'  one  o' 
thim's  in  the  commysariat,  Coolin — shame  for 
ye! 

Coolin  had  been  drafted  into  the  Commis- 
sariat and  was  now  variously  employed,  but 
chiefly  at  the  Sandbag  Redoubt,  where  the 
condensing  ship  did  duty,  sometimes  at  the 
south-east  end  of  the  harbour  where  the  Indian 
Contingent  watered.  Coolin  hated  the  duty,, 
and  because  he  was  in  a  bitter  mood  his  tongue 
was  like  a  leaf  of  aloe. 

"  I'll  be  drinkin'  condinsed  spirits  an'  'atin' 
hay  cake  whin  the  vultures  do  be  peckin'  at 
what's  lift  uv  ye  whin  the  Subadar's  done  wid 
ye.  I'd  a  drame  about  ye  last  noight,  William 
Connor  dear — three  times  I  dramed  it." 

Suddenly  Connor's  face  was  clouded. 
"  Whist,  thin,  Coolin,"  said  he  hoarsely.     "  Ha- 


HE   WOULD   NOT  BE   DENIED 

dendowas  I've  no  fear  uv,  an'  Subadars  are 
Injy  nagurs  anyhow,  though  fellow-soldiers  uv 
the  Quane  that's  good  to  shtand  befront  uv 
biscuit-boxes  or  behoind  thim;  an'  wan  has  no 
fear  of  the  thing  that's  widout  fear,  an'  death's 
iron  enters  in  aisy  whin  mortial  strength's  be- 
hoind it.  But  drames — I've  had  enough  uv 
drames  in  me  toime,  I  have  that,  Coolin ! " 
He  shuddered  a  little.  "  What  was  it  ye 
dramed  agin,  Coolin?  Was  there  anything 
but  the  dramin' — anny  noise,  or  sound,  or 
spakin'  ? " 

Coolin  lied  freely,  for  to  disturb  William 
Connor  was  little  enough  compensation  for 
being  held  back  at  Suakim  while  the  Berk- 
shires  and  the  Sikhs  were  off  for  a  scrimmage 
in  the  desert. 

"Nothin'  saw  I  wid  open  eye,  an'  nothin' 
heard,"  he  answered ;  "  but  I  dramed  twice 
that  I  saw  ye  lyin'  wid  y'r  head  on  y'r  arm 
and  a  hole  in  y'r  jacket.  Thin  I  waked  sud- 
din',  an'  I  felt  a  cold  wind  goin'  over  me — 
three  toimes;  an'  a  hand  was  laid  on  me  own 
face,  an'  it  was  cold  an'  smooth — like  the  hand 
uv  a  Sikh,  William  Connor  dear." 

Connor     suddenly    caught     Coolin's     arm. 

"D'ye  say  that!"  said  he.*   "  Shure,  I'll  tell 

ye  now  why  the  chills  rin  down  me  back  whin 

I    hear   uv    y'r   drame.       Thrue    things    are 

23  325 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

drames,  as  I'll  prove  to  ye — as  quare  as  con- 
dinsation  an'  as  thrue,  Coolin;  fer  condinsa- 
tion  comes  out  uv  nothin',  and  so  do  drames 
.  .  .  There  was  JNIary  Haggarty,  Coolin — 
yell  not  be  knowin'  Mary  Haggarty.  It  was 
mornin'  an'  evenin'  an'  the  first  day  uv  the 
world  where  she  were.  That  was  INIary  Hag- 
garty. An'  ivery  shtep  she  tuk  had  the  spring 
uv  the  first  sod  of  Adin.  Shure  no,  ye  didn't 
know  INIary  Haggarty,  an'  ye  niver  will, 
CooHn,  fer  the  sod  she  trod  she's  lyin'  under, 
an'  she'll  niver  rise  up  no  more." 

"  Fer  choice  I'll  take  the  sod  uv  Erin  to  the 
sand  uv  the  Soudan,"  said  Coolin. 

"  Ye'll  take  what  ye  can  get,  Coolin ;  fer 
wid  a  splinterin'  bullet  in  y'r  gizzard  ye  lie 
where  ye  fall." 

"  But  INIary  Haggarty,  Connor?" 

"  I  was  drinkin'  hard,  ye  understand,  Coolin 
— drinkin',  loike  a  dhromedairy — ivery  day 
enough  to  last  a  wake,  an'  INIary  try  in'  to  stop 
me  betoimes.  At  last  I  tuk  the  pledge — an' 
her  on  promise.  An'  purty,  purty  she  looked 
thin,  an'  shtepping  loight  an'  foine,  an'  the 
weddin'  was  coming  an.  But  wan  day  there 
was  a  foire,  an'  tlie  police  coort  was  burned 
down,  an'  the  gaol  was  that  singed  they  let 
the  b'ys  out,  an'  we  rushed  the  police  an' 
carried  of!"  the  b'ys,  an' " 


HE   WOULD   NOT  BE   DENIED 

*'  An'  ye  sAveltered  in  the  juice  ! "  broke  in 
Coolin  with  flashing  eyes,  proud  to  have 
roused  Connor  to  this  secret  tale,  which  he 
would  tell  to  the  Berkshires  as  long  as  they 
would  listen,  that  it  should  go  down  through 
a  long  hne  of  Berkshires,  as  Coohn's  tale  of 
William  Connor. 

' '  An'  I  sweltered  in  the  swill,"  said  Connor, 
his  eye  with  a  cast  quite  shut  with  emotion, 
and  the  other  nearly  so.  *'An'  wance  broke 
out  agin  afther  tin  months'  goin'  wake  and 
watery,  was  like  a  steer  in  the  corn.  There 
was  no  shtoppin'  me,  an' " 

"  Not  ;Mary  Haggarty  aither  ? " 

*'Not  Mary  Haggarty  aither.'* 

"  O,  William  Connor  dear !  " 

"  Ye  may  well  say,  '  O,  Wilham  Connor 
dear.'  'Twas  what  she  said  day  by  day,  an' 
the  heart  uv  me  loike  Phararyoh's.  Thrue  it 
is,  CooUn,  that  the  hand  uv  mortial  man  has 
an  ugly  way  uv  squazin'  a  woman's  heart  dry 
whin,  at  last,  to  his  coaxin'  she  lays  it  tinder 
an'  ansuspectin'  on  the  inside  grip  uv  it." 

"  But  the  heart  uv  Mary  Haggarty,  Connor." 

"  'Twas  loike  a  flower  under  y'r  fut,  Coolin, 
an'  a  heavy  fut  is  to  you.  She  says  to  me  wan 
day,  *  Ye're  breakin'  me  heart,  William  Con- 
nor,' says  she.  '  Thin  I'll  sodder  it  up  agin  wid 
the  help  uv  the  priest,'  says  I.     'That  ye  will 

527 


HE  WOUI.D   NOT   BE   DENIED 

not  do,'  says  she;  *wance  broken,  'tis  broke 
beyond  mendin'.'  '  Go  an  wid  ye,  Mary 
Haggarty  darlin','  says  I,  laughin'  in  her  face, 
*hivin  is  y'r  home.'  'Oh,  I'll  be  goin'  there, 
William  Connor,'  says  she,  '  I'll  be  goin'  there 
betimes,  I  hope.'  '  How  will  it  be  ? '  says  I ; 
*be  foire  or  wather,  Mary  darlin'?'  says  I. 
*  Ye  shall  know  whin  it  comes,'  says  she,  wid  a 
quare  look  in  her  eye." 

"  An'  ye  did  ? "  asked  Coohn,  open-mouthed 
and  staring;  for  never  had  he  seen  Connor 
with  aught  on  his  face  but  a  devil-may-care 
smile. 

"  Ordered  away  we  was  next  avenin',  an' 
sorra  the  glimpse  of  INIary  Haggarty  to  me — 
for  Headquarters  is  a  lady  that  will  not  be 
denied.  Away  we  wint  overseas.  Shlapin'  I 
was  wan  noight  in  a  troop-ship  in  the  Bay  uv 
Biscay ;  an'  I  dramed  I  saw  INIary  walkin* 
along  the  cliff  by — well,  'tis  no  matter,  fer 
ye've  niver  been  there,  an'  'tis  no  place  to  go 
to  unheedin'.  Manny  an'  manny  a  toime  I'd 
walked  wid  Mary  Haggarty  there.  There's  a 
steep  hill  betune  two  pints  uv  land.  If  ye  go 
low  on't  ye're  safe  enough — if  you  go  high  it 
crumbles,  an'  down  ye  shlip  a  bunder  fut  into 
the  say.  In  me  drame  I  saw  INIary  onthinkin', 
or  thinkin'  maybe  about  me  an'  not  about  the 
high  patli  or  the  low — though  'tis  only  the  low 

398 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

that's  used  these  twinty  years.  Her  head  was 
down.  I  tried  to  call  her.  She  didn't  hear, 
but  wint  an  an'  an.  All  at  wanst  I  saw  the 
ground  give  way.  She  shlipped  an'  snatched 
at  the  spinifex.  Wan  minnit  she  held,  an' 
thin  slid  down,  do\^Ti  into  the  say.  An'  I 
woke  «allin'  3Iarij,  Mary  in  me  throat." 

"  Ye  drained  it  wance  only,  Connor  ?  "  said 
CooUn,  with  the  insolent  grin  gone  out  of  his 
eyes. 

"  I  dramed  it  three  toimes,  an'  the  last  toime, 
whin  I  waked,  I  felt  a  cold  wind  go  over  me. 
Thin  a  hand  touched  me  face — the  same  as 
you,  Coolin,  the  same  as  you.  Drames  are 
thrue  things,  Coolin." 

"  It  was  thrue,  thin,  Connor  ? " 

A  look  of  shame  and  a  curious  look  of  fear 
crept  into  Coolin's  face;  for  though  it  was  not 
true  he  had  dreamed  of  the  hand  on  his  face 
and  the  cold  wind  blowing  over  him,  it  was 
true  he  had  dreamed  he  saw  Connor  lying  on 
the  gi'ound  with  a  bullet-hole  in  his  tunic. 
But  Coolin,  being  industrious  at  his  trencher, 
often  had  dreams,  and  one  more  or  less  horri- 
ble about  Connor  had  not  seemed  to  him  to 
matter  at  all.  It  had  sufficed,  however,  to 
give  him  a  cue  to  chaff  the  man  who  had 
knocked  the  wind  out  of  Subadar  Goordit 
Singh,  and  who  must  pay  for  it  one  hour  or 

829 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

another  in  due  course,  as  Coolin  and  the  Berk- 
shires  knew  full  well. 

"  It  was  thrue,  thin,  William  Connor  ? "  re- 
peated Coolin. 

"  As  thrue  as  that  yander  tripod  pump  kills 
one  man  out  uv  ivery  fifty.  As  thrue  as  that 
y'r  corn  beef  from  y'r  commysariat  tirys  gives 
William  Connor  thirst,  Coolin." 

"  She  was  drownded,  Connor  ?  "  said  Coolin 
in  a  whisper. 

"  As  I  dramed  it,  an'  allowin'  fer  difference 
uv  toime,  at  the  very  hour,  Coolin.  'Tis  five 
years  ago,  an'  I  take  it  hard  that  Mary  Hag- 
garty  spakes  to  me  through  you.  'Tis  a 
warnin',  Coohn." 

"  'Twas  a  lie  I  told  you,  Connor — 'twas  a 
lie  ! "     And  Coolin  tried  to  grin. 

Connor's  voice  was  like  a  woman's,  soft  and 
quiet,  as  he  answered  :  "  Ye'll  lie  fast  enough, 
Coolin,  whin  the  truth  won't  sarve  ;  but  the 
truth  has  sarved  its  turn  this  toime." 

"  Aw,  Connor  dear,  only  wan  half's  thrue. 
As  I'm  a  man — only  wan  half." 

"  Go  an  to  y'r  condinsation,  Coolin,  fer  the 
face  uv  ye's  not  fit  fer  dacint  company,  wan 
side  paralytic  wid  lyin',  an'  the  other  struck 
simple  wid  tellin'  the  truth.  An'  see,  Coolin, 
fer  the  warnin'  slie  give  ye  fer  me,  the  kit  I 
lave  is  yours,  an'  what  more,  be  the  will  uv 

330 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

God  !     An'  what  yeVe  told  me  ye'll  kape  to 
y'self,  Coolin,  or  hell  shall  be  your  portion." 

"  He  tuk  it  fer  truth  an'  a  warnin',  an'  he 
would  not  be  denied,"  said  Coolin  to  Henry 
Withers,  of  the  Sick  Horse  Depot,  two  hours 
afterwards,  when  the  Berkshires  and  the  Sikhs 
and  the  Bengalese  were  on  the  march  towards 
Tamai. 

"  The  bloomin'  trick  is  between  the  Haden- 
dowas  and  the  Subadar,"  answered  he  of  the 
Sick  Horse  Depot. 

"  Ye  take  it  fer  a  warnin',  thin  ? "  asked 
Coolin  uneasily. 

"  I  believe  you,"  answered  Henry  Withers. 

As  for  William  Connor,  when  he  left  Sua- 
kim,  his  foot  was  light,  his  figure  straight,  and 
he  sent  a  running  fire  of  laughter  through  his 
company  by  one  or  two  "  insinsible  remarks," 
as  Coolin  called  them. 

Three  hours'  marching  in  the  Soudan  will 
usually  draw  off  the  froth  of  a  man's  cheerful- 
ness, but  William  Connor  was  as  light  of 
heart  at  Tofrik  as  at  Suakim,  and  he  saw  with 
pleasure  two  sights— the  enemy  in  the  distance 
and  the  15th  Sikhs  on  their  right  flank,  with 
Subadar  Goordit  Singh  in  view. 

331 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

"  There's  work  'ere  to-day  for  whoever  likes 
it  on  the  'op  !  "  said  Henry  Withers,  of  the 
Sick  Horse  Depot,  as  he  dragged  his  load  of 
mimosa  to  the  zeriba;  for  he  had  got  leave 
to  come  on  with  his  regiment. 

"  You'll  find  it  'otter  still  when  the  vedettes 
and  Cossack  Posts  come  leadin'  in  the  Osnum 
Digners.  If  there  ain't  hoscillations  on  that 
rectangle,  strike  me  in  the  night-lights  ! "  said 
Corporal  Bagshot,  with  his  eye  on  the  Ben- 
galese.  "  Blyme,  if  the  whole  bloomin'  paral- 
logram  don't  shiver !  "  he  added ;  "  for  them 
Osnum  Digners  'as  the  needle,  and  they're 
ten  to  one,  or  I'm  a  bloater  !  " 

"  There's  Gardner  guns  fer  the  inimy  an' 
Lushai  dandies  fer  us,"  broke  in  Connor,  as  he 
drove  a  stake  in  the  ground,  wet  without  and 
dry  within — "  an'  Gardner  guns  are  divils  on 
the  randan.  Whin  they  get  to  work  it's  loike 
a  self-actin'  abbatoir." 

"  I  'opes  ye  like  it,  Connor.  Bloomin'  pic- 
nic for  you  when  the  Osnum  Digners  eat  sand. 
What  ho  ! " 

"  I  have  no  swarms  of  conscience  there, 
Billy  Bagshot.  For  the  bones  uv  me  frinds 
tliat's  lyin'  in  this  liaythen  land,  I'll  clane  as 
fur  as  I  can  reach.     An'  I'll  liave  the  run  uv 

mc  belt  to-day,  an "  he  added,  then  stopped 

short  as  the  order  came  from   McNeill  that 

332 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

the  Berkshires  should  receive  dinner  by  half- 
battahons. 

"  An'  'igh  time,"  said  Corporal  Bagshot. 
*'  What  with  marehin'  and  zeribakin'  and  the 
sun  upon  me  tank  since  four  this  mornin',  I'm 
dead  for  food  and  buried  for  water.  I  ain't 
no  bloomin'  salamanker  to  be  grilled  and  say 
thank-ye,  and  I  ain't  no  bloomin'  camomile 
to  bring  up  me  larder  and  tap  me  tank 
when  Coolin's  commissary  at  hasn't  no  or- 
ders." 

"  Shure  ye'll  run  better  impty,  Billy  boy," 
said  Connor.  "  An'  what  fer  do  ye  need  food 
before  y'r  execution  ?  "  he  added,  with  a  twist 
of  his  mouth. 

"  Before  execution,  ye  turkey  cock — before 
execution  is  the  time  to  eat  and  drink.  How 
shall  the  bloomin'  carnage  gore  the  Libyan 
sands,  if  there  ain't  no  refreshment  for  the 
vitals  and  the  diagrams  ? " 

"  Come  an  wid  ye  to  y'r  forage-cake,  thin — 
an'  take  this  to  ye,"  added  Connor  slyly,  as  he 
slipped  a  little  nickel-plated  flask  into  Billy 
Bagshot 's  hand. 

"  With  a  Woking  crematory  in  y'r  own 
throat.  See  you  bloomin'  furder ! "  answered 
Billy  Bagshot. 

"I'm  not  drinkin'  to-day,"  answered  Con- 
nor, with   a   curious    look    in    the    eye    that 

{333 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

had  no  cast.     "  I'm  not  drinkin',  you  under- 
stand." 

"  Ain't  it  a  bit  momentary  ?  "  said  Bagshot, 
as  they  sat  down. 

"  Momentary  be  toimes,"  answered  Connor 
evasively. 

"Are  you  eatin'  at  this  bloomin'  swaree, 
then?" 

"  I'm  niver  aff  me  forage-cake  ! "  answered 
Connor,  and  he  ate  as  if  he  had  had  his  tooth 
in  nothing  for  a  month. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  the  Sikhs  were 
passing  the  Berkshire  zeriba,  and  the  Berk- 
shires,  filing  out,  joined  them  to  cut  brush- 
wood. A  dozen  times  the  Subadar  Goordit 
Singh  almost  touched  shoulders  with  Connor, 
but  neither  spoke,  and  neither  saw  directly ;  for 
if  once  they  saw  each  other's  eyes  the  end  might 
come  too  soon,  to  tlie  disgrace  of  two  regiments. 

Suddenly,  the  forbidden  song  on  William 
Connor  and  the  Subadar  arose  among  the 
Berkshires.  No  one  knew  who  started  it,  but 
it  probably  was  Billy  Bagshot,  who  had  had 
more  than  a  double  portion  of  drink,  and  was 
seized  with  a  desire  to  celebrate  his  thanks  to 
Connor  thus. 

In  any  case  the  words  ran  along  the  line, 
and  were  carried  up  in  a  shout  amid  the 
crackling  of  the  brushwood — 

334 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

"  Where  was  the  shame  of  it. 
Where  was  the  blame  of  it, 
Wilham  Connor  dear  ?  " 

That  sort  of  special  providence  which  seems 
to  shelter  the  unworthy,  gave  India  and  the 
Eerkshires  honour  that  hour  when  the  barom- 
eter registered  shame;  for  never  was  mer- 
cury more  stormy  than  shot  up  in  the  artery 
of  two  men's  wills  when  that  song  rose  over 
the  zeriba  at  Tofrik.  They  were  not  fifty  feet 
apart  at  the  time,  and  at  the  lilt  of  that  chorus 
they  swung  towards  each  other  like  two  horses 
to  the  bugle  on  parade. 

"A  guinea  to  a  brown  but  .landers  goes 
large ! "  said  Billy  Bagshot  under  his  breath, 
his  eye  on  the  Subadar  and  repenting  him  of 
the  song. 

But  Janders  did  not  go  large ;  for  at  that 
very  moment  there  came  the  bugle-call  for  the 
working  parties  to  get  into  the  zeriba,  as  from 
the  mimosa  scrub  came  hundreds  upon  hun- 
dreds of  "  Osnum  Digners "  hard  upon  the 
heels  of  the  vedettes. 

"The  Hadendowas  'as  the  privilege,"  said 
Billy  Bagshot,  as  the  Berkshires  and  the  Sikhs 
swung  round  and  made  for  tlie  zeriba. 

*'  What's  that  ye  say  ? "  said  Connor,  as  the 
men  stood  to  their  arms. 

"Looked  as  if  the  bloomin'  hontray  was 
335 


HE  WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

with  the  Subadiir,  but  the  Hadendowas  'as  the 
honour  to  hinvite  sweet  WiUiam  I  " 

**  Murther  uv  man — look — look,  ye  Berk- 
shire boar  !     The  Bengals  is  breakin'  line !  " 

' '  Hoscillations  'as  begun  ! "  said  Bagshot, 
as,  disorganised  by  the  vedettes  riding  through 
their  flank  into  the  zeriba,  the  Bengalese  wa- 
vered. 

"  'Tis  your  turn  now — go  an  to  yV  gruel !  " 
said  Connor,  as  Bagshot  with  his  company 
and  others  were  ordered  to  move  over  to  the 
Bengalese  and  steady  them. 

"An'  no  bloomin'  sugar  either,"  Bagshot 
called  back  as  he  ran. 

' '  Here's  to  ye  thin  !  "  shouted  Connor,  as 
the  enemy  poured  down  on  their  zeriba  on  the 
west  and  the  Bengalese  retreated  on  them 
from  the  east,  the  Billy  Bagshot  detachment 
of  Berkshires  rallying  them  and  firing  steadily, 
the  enemy  swarming  after  and  stampeding 
the  mules  and  camels.  Over  the  low  bush 
fence,  over  the  unfinished  sandbag  parapet  at 
the  southwest  salient,  spread  the  shrieking 
enemy  like  ants,  stabbing  and  cutting.  The 
Gardner  guns,  as  Connor  liad  said,  were  "fer 
the  inimy,"  but  the  Lusliai  dandies  were  for 
tlie  men  tliat  managed  them  that  day ;  for  the 
enemy  came  too  soon — in  slirieking  masses  to 
a  hand-to-liand  mclcc. 

336 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

What  India  lost  that  hour  by  the  Benga- 
lese  the  Sikhs  won  back.  Side  by  side  with 
them  the  Berkshires  cursed  and  raged  and  had 
their  way ;  and  when  the  Sikhs  drew  over  and 
laid  themselves  along  the  English  lines  a  wild 
cheer  went  up  from  the  Berkshires.  Wounded 
men  spluttered  their  shouts  from  mouths  filled 
with  blood,  and  to  the  welcoming  roars  of  the 
Berkshires  the  Sikhs  showed  their  teeth  in 
grim  smiles,  "  and  done  things,"  as  Billy  Bag- 
shot  said  when  it  was  all  over. 

But  by  consent  of  every  man  who  fought 
under  INIcNeill  that  day,  the  biggest  thing 
done  among  the  Sikhs  happened  in  the  fiercest 
moment  of  the  rush  on  the  Berkshire  zeriba. 
Billy  Bagshot  told  the  story  that  night,  after 
the  Lushai  dandies  had  carried  off  the  wounded 
and  the  sands  of  the  desert  had  taken  in  the 
dead. 

"  Tyke  it  or  leave  it,  'e  'ad  the  honours  of 
the  day,"  said  Bagshot,  "  'e  and  .landers — old 
Subadar  Goordit  Singh.  It  myde  me  sick  to 
see  them  Bengalesey,  some  of  'em  'ookin  it  to 
Suakim,  some  of  'em  retirin'  on  the  seraphim, 
which  is  another  name  for  Berkshires.  It 
ain't  no  sweet  levee  a-tryin*  to  rally  'eathen 
'ands  to  do  their  dooty.  So  we  'ad  to  cover 
*em  back  into  the  zeriba  of  the  seraphim — 
which   is   our   glorious    selves.      A   bloomin* 

337 


HE   AVOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

'asty  puddiii'  wiis  that  tournamong,  but  it 
wasn't  so  bloomin'  'asty  that  the  Subadar  and 
William  Connor  didn't  finish  what  they 
started  for  to  do  when  the  day  was  young, " 

"Did  Janders  stick  the  b'y?"  said  Coolin, 
who  had  just  come  in  from  Suakim  with  the 
Commissariat  camels.  "  Shure,  I  hope  to  God 
he  didn't!  "     He  was  pale  and  wild  of  eye. 

"  Did  a  bloomin'  sparrow  give  you  'is  brains 
when  you  was  changed  at  birth  ?  Stick  Will- 
iam Connor — I  believe  you  not !  This  is  what 
'appened,  me  bloomin'  sanitary.  When  I  got 
back  be'ind  the  'eavenly  parapet,  there  was 
William  Connor  in  a  nice  little  slaughter-liouse 
of  'is  own.  'E  was  doin'  of  'isself  proud — too 
busy  to  talk.  All  at  once  'e  spies  a  flag  the 
Osnuiu  Digners  'ad  planted  on  the  'eavenly 
parapet.  'E  opens  'is  mouth  and  gives  one 
yell,  and  makes  for  that  bit  of  cotton.  'E  got 
there,  for  'e  would  not  be  denied.  'E  got  there 
an'  'e  couldn't  get  back.  But  'e  made  a  rush 
for  it " 


"  A  divil  he  was  on  rushes,"  broke  in  Pri- 
vate Coolin,  wiping  his  mouth  nervously. 

"  'E's  the  pride  of  'is  'ome  and  the  bloomin' 
brigade,  bar  one,  which  is  the  Subadar  Goordit 
Singli.  For  w'en  the  Subadar  sees  Connor  in 
'is  'olc,  a  cut  across  'is  jaw,  doin'  of  'is  trick 
alone,  away  goes  Subadar  Goordit  Singh  and 

338 


HE   WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

two  of  'is  company  be'ind  'iin  for  to  rescue. 
'E  cut  with  'is  sword  like  a  bloomin'  picture. 
'E  didn't  spare  'is  strength,  and  'e  didn't  spare 
the  Osnum  Digners.  An'  'e  come  back,  an'  he 
brought  with  him  Wilham  Connor — that's  all 
what  come  back." 

"  How  long  did  AVilliam  hve  ? "  said  Coolin. 
*'  He  was  a  good  frind  to  me  was  Connor,  a 
thrue  frind  he  was  to  me.  How  long  did  the 
b'y  live  ? " 

"  'E  lived  long  enough  to  'ave  ^IcNeill  shake 
'im  by  the  'and.  'E  lived  long  enough  to  say 
to  the  Subadar  Goordit  Singh,  '  I  would  take 
scorn  uv  me  to  lave  widout  askin'  y'r  pardon, 
Subadar.'  And  the  Subadar  took  'is  'and  and 
salaamed,  and  showed  'is  teeth,  which  was 
meant  friendly." 

"  What  else  did  Connor  say  ? "  asked  Coolin, 
eagerly. 

"  'E  said  'is  kit  was  for  you  that's  spoilin'  a 
good  name  in  the  condinsation  of  the  commis- 
saryat,  Coolin." 

"  But  what  else  ?  "  said  Coohn.  "  Nothin' 
about  a  drame  at  all  ?  " 

"  Who's  talkin'  about  dreams  ?  "  said  Bag- 
shot.  "  'E  wasn't  no  bloomin'  poet.  'E  was  a 
man.  What  'e  said  'e  said  like  a  man.  'E 
said  'e'd  got  word  from  ^lary — which  is  proper 
that  a  man  should  do  when  'e's  a-chuckin'  of 

339 


HE    WOULD   NOT   BE   DENIED 

'is  tent-pegs.  If  'e  ain't  got  no  mother — an* 
Connor  'adn't — 'is  wife  or  'is  sweetheart  'as  the 
honour." 

"  Oh,  blessed  God,"  said  Coohn,  "  I  wish  I 
hadn't  towld  him — I  wish  I  hadn't  towld  the 

y- 

"  Told  'im  wot  ?  "  said  Bagshot. 

But  Coolin  of  the  Commissariat  did  not  an- 
swer; his  head  was  on  his  arms,  and  his  arms 
were  on  his  knees. 


340 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 


v==%S^%^  y^  1 


WAS  a  flower,"  said  Henry 
Withers  of  the  Sick  Horse 
Depot. 

"  A  floower  in  front  gar- 
den ! "   ironically   responded 
Holgate  the  Yorkshire  engi- 
neer, as  he  lay  on  his  back  on 
the  lower  deck  of  the  Osiris^ 
waiting  for  Fielding  Pasha's 
^^^^i^'    orders  to  steam  up  the  river. 
^^"^   1~         "  'E  was  the  bloomin'  flower  of 
the  flock,"  said  Henry  Withers,  with  a  cross 
between  a  yawn  and  a  sigh,  and  refusing  to 
notice  Holgate's  sarcasm. 

"  Aw've  heered  on  'em,  the  floowers  o'  the 
flock — they  coom  to  a  bad  end  mostwise  in 
Yarkshire — nipped  in  t'  bood  loike  !  Was 
tha  friend  nipped  untimely  ?  " 

"  I'd  give  a  bloomin'  camomile  to  know  ! " 
*'  Deserted  or  summat  ? " 
"  Ow  yus,  'e  deserted — to  Khartoum,"  an- 
swered AVithers  with  a  sneer.     "  The  'owlin' 
23  341 


THE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

sneak  went  in   'idiii'   with  Gordon   at   Khar- 
toum ! " 

"Aye,  aw've  heerd  o'  Gordon  a  bit,"  said 
Holgate  dubiously,  intent  to  further  anger 
the  Beetle,  as  Henry  ^Vithers  was  called. 

"  Ow  yus,  ow  verily  yus  !  An'  y've  'ear 
do'  Julius  Cajsar,  an'  Nebucha'nezzar,  an' 
Florence  Noightingale,  'aven't  you — you  wich 
is  chiefly  belly  band  and  gullet." 

*'  Aye,  aw've  eaten  too  mooch  to-day,"  re- 
joined Holgate  placidly,  refusing  to  see  insult. 
"  Aw  don't  see  what  tha  friend  was  doin'  at 
Khartoum  wi'  Goordon." 

"  'E  was  makin'  Perry  Davis'  Pain  Killer 
for  them  at  'ome  who  wouldn't  send  Gordon 
'elp  when  the  'eathen  was  at  'is  doors  a  'underd 
to  one.  'E  was  makin'  it  for  them  to  soothe 
their  bloomin'  pains  an'  sorrers  when  Gordon 
an'  Macnamara  'ad  cried  'dp!  for  the  lawst 
toime  I " 

"  Aw've  taken  off  ma  hat  to  Goordon 's 
nevvy — he  be  a  fine  man — head  for  macheens 
he  has," — Holgate's  eyes  dwelt  on  his  engine 
lovingly ;  *'  but  aw've  heerd  nowt  o'  INIacna- 
mara — never  nowt  o'  him.  A\'^ho  was  ISIacna- 
mara  ? " 

"  'E  was  the  bloomin'  flower  of  the  flock — 'e 
was  my  pal  as  took  service  in  the  I^eave-me- 
alone-to-die  Kegimcnt  at  Khartoum." 

342 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

"  Aw've  never  read  o'  Macnamara.  Dost 
think  tha'll  ever  know  how  he  went  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  sayin'  'as  'e  went,  an'  I  ain"t  thinkin' 
as  'e  went.  I'm  waitin'  like  a  bloomin'  tele- 
garpher  at  the  end  of  a  wire.  'E  was  the 
pick  o'  fifteen  'underd  men,^'as  INIacnamara." 

"  What  sent  t'  laad  to  Goordon  ?  " 

"  A-talkin'  of  'isself  silly  to  two  lydies  at 
onct." 

"  Aye,  theer's  the  floower  o'  the  flock. 
Breakin'  hearts  an'  spoilin'  lives — aw've  seen 
them  floowers  bloomin'." 

"  'E  didn't  break  no  witherin'  'carts,  an'  'e 
didn't  spoil  no  lives.  The  lydies  was  both 
married  afore  Macnamara  got  as  far  as  Wady 
Halfar.  'E  break  'carts — not  much  !  'E  went 
to  Khartoum  to  be  quiet." 

"  Aw'm  pity  in'  the  laads  that  married  them 
lasses." 

"  'Ere,  keep  your  bloomin'  pity.  I  wuz  one. 
An'  if  your  pity's  'urtin'  yer,  think  of  'im  as 
'adn't  no  wife  nor  kid  to  say  when  'ee's  dead, 
'  Poor  Peter  Macnamara,  'e  is  gone.'  " 

"  A  good  job  too,  aw'm  thinkin'." 

"  A  n'  a  bloomin'  'ard  'cart  y'  'ave.  Wantin' 
of  a  man  to  die  without  leavin'  'is  mark — 'is 
bleedin'  'all-mark  on  the  world.  I  'ave  two — 
two  kids  I  'ave ;  an'  so  'clp  mc  Gawd,  things 
bein'  as  they  are,  I  Avouldn't  say  nothin'  if  one 

343 


THE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

of  'em  was  Macnamara's — wich  it  ain't — no 
fear  I " 

"  Was  JMacnamara  here  you  wouldn't  say 
thaat  to  his  faace,  aw'm  thinkin'." 

"  Id  break  'is  'ulkin'  neck  first.  I  ain't  put- 
tin'  these  things  on  the  'oardins,  an'  I  ain't 
thinkin'  'em,  if  'ee's  ahve  in  the  clutches  of  the 
'eathen  Kalifer  at  Homdurman.  There's  them 
as  says  'e  is,  an'  there's  them  as  says  'e  was  cut 
down  after  Gordon.  But  it's  only  Gawd- 
forsaken  Arabs  as  says  it,  an'  they'll  lie  wich- 
ever  way  you  want  'em." 

"  Aye,  laad,  but  what  be  great  foolks  doin' 
at  Cairo  ?  They  be  sendin'  goold  for  Slatin 
an'  Ohrwalder  by  sooch-like  heathen  as  lie  to 
you.  If  INIacnamara  be  alive,  what  be  Mac- 
namara  doin'  ?  An'  what  be  AVingate  an' 
Kitchener  an'  great  foolks  at  Cairo  doin'  ?  " 

"  They're  say  in',  *  Macnamara,  'oos  'e  ?  'E 
ain't  no  class.     'Oo  wants  JMacnamara  I '  " 

Holgate  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  a  look 
of  interest  in  his  face,  wliich  he  tried  to  dis- 
guise. "  See,  laad,"  he  said,  "  why  does  tha 
not  send  messenger  thaself — a  troosty  mes- 
senger ?  " 

"  'Ere,  do  you  think  I'm  a  bloomin'  Crosus  ? 
I've  done  the  trick  twice — ten  pounds  o'  loot 
once,  an'  ten  golden  shillins  another.  Bloomin' 
thieves  both  of  'em — said  they  avuz  goin'  to 


THE   FLOWER   OF  THE  FLOCK 

Homdurman,  and  didn't — not  much !  But 
one  of  'em  ^vent  to  'eaven  witli  cholery,  an 
one  is  livin'  yet  with  a  crooked  leg,  wich  is 
less  than  I  wuz  workin'  for." 

Holgate  was  sitting  bolt  upright  now. 
"  Didst  tha  save  them  ten  sooverins  to  get 
news  o'  ^lacnamara,  laad  ?  " 

"  Think  I  bloomin'  well  looted  'em — go  to 
'ell ! "  said  Henry  Withers  of  the  Sick  Horse 
Depot,  and  left  the  lower  deck  of  the  Osiris 
in  a  fit  of  sudden  anger. 

II 

Up  ill  Omdurman  Peter  INIacnamara  knew 
naught  of  this.  He  ran  behind  his  master's 
horse,  he  sat  on  his  master's  mat,  he  stood  in 
the  sun  before  his  master's  door,  barefooted 
and  silent  and  vengeful  in  his  heart,  but  with 
a  grin  on  his  face.  When  Khartoum  fell  he 
and  Slatin  had  been  thrown  into  the  Saier 
loaded  with  irons.  Then,  when  the  jNIahdi 
died  he  had  been  made  the  slave  of  the  Kha- 
lifa's brother,  whose  vanity  was  flattered  by 
having  a  European  servant.  The  Khalifa 
Abdullah  being  angry  one  day  with  his 
brother,  vented  his  spite  by  ordering  ^lac- 
namara  back  to  prison  again.  Later  the 
Khalifa  gave  him  to  a  favourite  Emir  for  a 

345 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

servant;  but  that  service  was  of  short  dura- 
tion, for  on  a  certain  morning  INIacnamaras 
patience  gave  way  under  the  brutahty  of  his 
master,  and  he  refused  to  help  him  on  his 
ho^se.  This  was  in  the  presence  of  the  Kha- 
hfa,  and  Abdullah  was  so  delighted  at  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  Emir  that  he  saved  the  Irish- 
man's life,  and  gave  him  to  Osman  Wad 
Adam,  after  he  had  been  in  irons  three 
months  and  looked  no  better  than  a  dead 
man.  Henceforth  things  went  better,  for 
Osman  Wad  Adam  was  an  Arab  with  a  sense 
of  humour,  very  lazy  and  very  licentious,  and 
Macnamara's  Arabic  was  a  source  of  enjoy- 
ment to  him  in  those  hours  when  he  did  noth- 
ing but  smoke  and  drink  bad  coffee.  Also 
JMacnamara  was  an  expert  with  horses,  and 
had  taught  the  waler,  which  Osman  Wad 
Adam  had  looted  from  Khartoum,  a  number 
of  admired  tricks. 

Macnamara  wished  many  a  time  that  he 
could  take  to  the  desert  with  the  waler ;  but 
the  ride  that  he  must  ride  to  Wady  Haifa 
was  not  for  a  horse.  None  but  a  camel  could 
do  it.  I^esides,  he  must  have  guides,  and 
how  was  he  to  pay  guides?  ]\Iore  than  once 
he  had  tried  to  get  a  word  with  Slatin,  but 
that  was  dangerous  for  them  both  —  most 
dangerous  for  Slatin,  who  was  now  the  ser- 

346 


THE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

vant  of  the  Khalifa  Abdullah  himself  Sla- 
tin  was  always  suspected,  and  was  therefore 
watched  carefully ;  but  the  Khalifa  knew  that 
Macnamara  had  no  chance  to  escape,  for  he 
had  no  friends  in  Cairo,  no  money,  and  no 
more  could  have  bought  a  camel  than  a  king- 
dom. Escaping  from  the  city  itself,  he  could 
but  die  in  the  desert. 

He  had  only  one  Arab  friend — little  Ma- 
hommed  Nafar  the  shoemaker.  The  shoe- 
maker was  friendly  to  him  for  a  great  kind- 
ness done  in  the  days  when  they  both  lived 
in  Khartoum  and  ere  the  Arab  deserted  to 
the  camp  of  the  INIahdi.  But  what  help  could 
Mahommed  Nafar  give  him  unless  he  had 
money?  With  plenty  of  money  the  shoe- 
maker might  be  induced  to  negotiate  with 
Arab  merchants  coming  from  Dongola  or 
Berber  into  Omdurman  to  get  camels,  and 
arrange  an  escape  down  the  desert  to  AVady 
Haifa ;  but  where  was  the  money  to  come 
from? 

One  day,  at  a  great  review,  when  the  roar 
of  the  drums  rivalled  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the 
Mahdists,  and  the  Baggaras,  for  a  diversion, 
looted  one  quarter  of  the  town,  ^lacnamara 
was  told  by  his  master  that  Slatin  had  been 
given  by  the  Khalifii  to  Mahommed  Sherif, 
and  was  going  to  Darfur.     As  a  kind  of  fare- 

347 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

well  barbecue,  whether  or  not  intended  by  the 
Khahfa  as  a  warning  to  his  departing  general, 
ten  prisoners  had  their  feet  and  hands  cut  off 
in  the  Beit-el- JMal,  and  five  lost  their  heads  as 
well  as  their  hands  and  feet. 

"  It  makes  my  blood  run  cold,"  said  Slatin 
softly  in  English,  as  IMacnamara  passed  him, 
walking  at  his  master's  stirrup. 

"  JNIine's  boiUn\  su' !  "  answered  ]\Iacnamara. 

Slatin's  eyes  took  on  a  more  cheerful  look 
than  they  usually  carried,  for  it  was  many  a 
day  since  he  had  been  addressed  with  respect, 
and  the  "sir"  touched  a  mellow  chord  within 
him — memory  of  the  days  when  he  was  Gov- 
ernor of  Darfur.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  Kha- 
lifa's eyes  fixed  on  JNIacnamara,  and  the  look, 
for  a  wonder,  was  not  unfriendly.  It  came  to 
him  that  perhaps  the  Khalifa  meant  to  take 
]\Iacnamara  for  his  own  servant,  for  it  flat- 
tered his  vanity  to  have  a  white  man  at  his 
stirrup  and  on  his  mat.  He  knew  that  the 
Khalifa  was  only  sending  himself  to  Darfur 
that  he  might  be  a  check  upon  Mahommed 
Sherif  He  did  not  think  that  INIacnamara's 
position  would  be  greatly  bettered,  save  per- 
haps in  bread  and  onions,  by  being  taken  into 
the  employ  of  the  Khalifti.  His  life  would 
certainly  not  be  safer.  But,  if  it  was  to  be, 
perhaps  he  could  do  a  good   turn   to   JNIac- 

348 


THE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

namara  by  warning  him,  by  planting  deep  in 
the  KhaHfa's  mind  the  Irishman's  simple- 
minded  trustworthiness.  When,  therefore, 
the  Khalifa  suddenly  turned  and  asked  him 
about  Macnamara  he  chose  his  words  dis- 
creetly. The  Khalifa,  ever  suspicious,  said 
that  JSIacnamara  had  been  thrown  into  prison 
twice  for  insubordination.  To  this  Slatin  re- 
plied : 

' '  Sire,  what  greater  proof  could  be  had  of 
the  man's  simplicity?  His  life  is  in  your 
hands,  sire.  Would  he  have  risked  it,  had  he 
not  been  the  most  simple-minded  of  men  ? 
But  you  who  read  men's  hearts,  sire,  as  others 
read  a  book,  you  know  if  I  speak  truth." 
Slatin  bent  his  head  in  humility. 

The  flattery  pleased  the  Khalifa. 

"  Summon  Osman  Wad  Adam  and  the  man 
to  me,"  he  said. 

In  the  questioning  that  followed,  JMacna- 
mara's  Arabic  and  his  understanding  of  it  was 
so  bad  that  it  was  necessary  for  Slatin  to  ask 
him  questions  in  English.  This  was  a  test  of 
Macnamara,  for  Slatin  said  some  things  in 
English  which  were  not  for  the  Khalifa's 
knowing.  If  JNIacnamara's  face  changed,  if 
he  started,  Abdullah's  suspicions,  ever  ready, 
would  have  taken  form. 

But  JNIacnamara's  wits  were  not  wool-gath- 
34,9 


THE   FLOWER   OF  THE  FLOCK 

ering,  and  when  Slatin  said  to  him,  "  If  I 
escape,  I  will  try  to  arrange  yours,"  IMacna- 
mara  replied,  with  a  respectful  but  placid 
stolidity:  "Right,  sir,  Where  does  the  old 
sinner  keep  his  spoof?  " 

It  Avas  now  for  Slatin  to  keep  a  hold  on 
himself,  for  Macnamara's  reply  was  unex- 
pected. Ruling  his  face  to  composure,  how- 
ever, he  turned  to  the  Khalifa  and  said  that 
up  to  this  moment,  IVlacnamara  had  not  been 
willing  to  become  a  Mahommedan,  but  his 
veneration  for  the  Mahdi's  successor  was  so 
great,  that  he  would  embrace  the  true  faith  by 
the  mercy  of  God  and  the  permission  of  the 
Khalifa.  When  the  Khalifa  replied  that  he 
would  accept  the  convert  into  the  true  faith 
at  once,  Slatin  then  said  to  INIacnamara ; 

"Come  now,  my  man,  I've  promised  that 
you  will  become  a  JNlahommedan — it's  your 
best  chance  of  safety." 

"  I'll  see  him  on  the  devil's  pitchfork  first," 
said  JNIacnamara;  but  he  did  not  change 
countenance.  "  I'm  a  Protestant  and  I'll 
stand  be  me  baptism." 

"You'll  lose  your  head,  man,"  answered 
Slatin.     "Don't  be  a  fool." 

"  I'm  keepin'  to  what  me  godftithers  and 
godmothers  swore  for  me,"  answered  Mac- 
namara  stubbornly. 

350 


THE   FLOWER   OF  THE  FLOCK 

"  You  must  pretend  for  a  while,  or  you'll  be 
dead  in  an  hour — and  myself  too." 

"You! — that's  a  different  nose  on  me  face," 
answered  INIacnamara.  "But  suppose  I  buck 
when  I  get  into  the  mosque? — no,  begobs,  I'll 
not  be  doin'  it !  " 

"  I'll  say  to  him  that  you'll  do  it  with  tears 
of  joy,  if  you  can  have  a  month  for  prepara- 
tion." 

"  JNIake  it  two  an'  I'm  your  man,  seein'  as 
you've  lied  for  me,  sir.  But  on  wan  condition: 
where  does  he  keep  his  coin? " 

"  If  you  try  that  on,  you'll  die  bit  by  bit  like 
the  men  in  the  Beit-el- INIal  to-day,"  answered 
Slatin  quickly. 

"  I'm  carvin'  me  own  mutton,  thank  ye 
kindly,  sir,"  answered  Macnamara. 

"  I've  heard  that  part  of  his  treasure  is  under 
his  own  room,"  went  on  Slatin  quickly,  for  he 
saw  that  the  Khalifa's  eyes  had  a  sinister  look 
— the  conversation  had  been  too  long. 

"  Speak  no  more  !  "  said  Abdullah  sharply. 
'*  What  is  it  you  say,  my  son  ? "  he  added  to 
Slatin. 

*'  He  has  been  telling  me  that  he  is  without 
education  even  in  his  own  faith,  and  that  he 
cannot  learn  things  quickly.  Also  he  does 
not  understand  what  to  do  in  the  mosque,  or 
how  to  pray,  and   needs  to   be  taught.     He 

351 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

then  asked  what  was  impossible,  and  I  had  to 
argue  with  him,  sire." 

**  What  did  he  ask?  "  asked  the  Khahfa,  his 
fierce  gaze  on  INIacnamara. 

"  He  wished  to  be  taught  by  yourself,  sire. 
He  said  that  if  you  taught  him  he  would  un- 
derstand. I  said  that  you  were  the  chosen 
Emperor  of  the  Faithful,  the  coming  king 
of  the  world,  but  he  replied  that  the  prophets 
of  old  taught  their  disciples  with  their  own 
tongues." 

It  was  a  bold  lie,  but  the  Khalifa  was  flat- 
tered, and  made  a  motion  of  assent.  Slatin, 
seeing  his  advantage,  added  : 

"  I  told  him  that  you  could  not  spare  the 
time  to  teach  him,  sire;  but  he  said  that 
if  you  would  talk  to  him  for  a  little  while 
every  day  for  a  montli,  after  he  had  studied 
Arabic  for  two  months,  he  would  be  ready 
to  follow  your  majesty  through  life  and 
death. " 

"  Approach,  my  son,"  said  the  Khalifa  to 
Macnamara  suddenly.  JNIacnamara  came  near. 
He  understood  Arabic  better  than  he  had  ad- 
mitted, and  lie  saw  in  this  three  months'  res- 
pite, if  it  were  granted,  the  chance  to  carry 
out  a  plan  that  was  in  his  mind.  The  Khalifa 
held  out  a  hand  to  him,  and  JNIacnamara,  boil- 
ing with  rage  inwardly  and  his  face  flushing — 

352 


THE  FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

which  the  Khalifa  mistook  for  modesty  — 
kissed  it. 

"  You  shall  have  two  moons  to  learn  Arabic 
of  a  good  teacher  every  day,  and  then  for  one 
moon  I  myself  will  instruct  you  in  the  truth," 
said  Abdullah.  "  You  shall  wait  at  my  door 
and  walk  by  my  stirrup  and  teach  my  horse  as 
you  have  taught  the  English  horse  of  Osman 
Wad  Adam.  Thy  faithful  service  I  will  re- 
ward, and  thy  unfaithfulness  I  will  punish  with 
torture  and  death." 

"  111  cut  the  price  of  the  kiss  on  those  dirty 
fingers  from  a  Dervish  joint,"  muttered  ^lac- 
namara  to  himself,  as  he  took  his  place  that 
evening  at  the  Khalifa's  door. 

One  thing  INIacnamara  was  determined  on. 
He  would  never  pray  in  a  IMahommedan 
mosque,  he  would  never  turn  INIahommedan 
even  for  a  day.  The  time  had  come  when  he 
must  make  a  break  for  liberty.  He  must  have 
money.  With  money  IMahommed  Nafar,  who 
was  now  his  teacher — Slatin  had  managed  that 
— would  move  for  him. 

Under  the  spur  of  his  purpose  IMacnamara 
rapidly  acquired  Arabic,  and  steadftistly  tried 
to  make  ^lahommed  Nafar  his  friend,  for  he 
liked  the  little  man,  and  this  same  little  man 
was  the  only  Arab,  save  one,  from  first  to  last, 
whom  he  would  not  have  spitted  on  a  bayonet. 

353 


^JTIE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

At  first  he  chafed  under  the  hourly  duphcity 
necessary  in  his  service  to  the  Khahfa,  then  he 
took  an  interest  in  it,  and  at  last  he  wept  tears 
of  joy  over  his  dangerous  proficiency.  Day 
after  day  JNIacnamara  waited  in  the  hope  of 
making  sure  that  the  Khalifa's  treasure  was 
under  the  room  where  he  slept.  LTpon  the 
chance  of  a  successful  haul,  he  had  made  fervid 
promises,  after  the  fashion  of  his  race,  to  the 
shoemaker  IMahommed  Nafar.  At  first  the 
shoemaker  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it : 
lielping  prisoners  to  escape  meant  torture  and 
decapitation ;  but  then  he  hated  the  Khalifa, 
whose  Baggaras  had  seized  his  property,  and 
killed  his  wife  and  children  ;  and  in  the  end 
Macnamara  prevailed.  JNIahommed  Nafar 
found  some  friendly  natives  from  the  hills  of 
Gilif,  who  hated  the  Khalifa  and  his  tyrannous 
governments,  and  at  last  they  agreed  to  at- 
tempt the  escape. 

Ill 

A  MONTH  went  by.  lAist,  robbery,  and  mur- 
der ruled  in  Omdurman.  The  river  thickened 
with  its  pollution,  the  trees  within  the  walls 
sickened  of  its  poison,  the  bones  of  the  un- 
buricd  dead  lay  in  tlic  moat  beyond  the  gates, 
and,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  desolate 

354 


THE   FLOWER  OF   THE  FLOCK 

Khartoum  crumbled  over  the  streets  and 
paths  and  gardens  where  Gordon  had  walked. 
The  city  was  a  pit  of  infomy,  where  struggled, 
or  wallowed,  or  died  to  the  bellowing  of  the 
Khalifa's  drum  and  the  hideous  mirth  of  his 
Baggaras,  the  victims  of  Abdullah.  But  out 
in  the  desert — the  Bayuda  desert — between 
Omdurman  and  Old  Dongola,  there  was  only 
peace.  Here  and  there  was  "  a  valley  of  dry 
bones,"  but  the  sand  had  washed  the  bones 
clean,  the  vultures  had  had  their  hour  and 
flown  away,  the  debris  of  deserted  villages 
had  been  covered  by  desert  storms,  and  the 
clear  blue  sky  and  ardent  sun  were  over  all, 
joyous  and  immaculate.  Out  in  the  desert 
there  was  only  the  life-giving  air,  the  opal 
sands,  the  plaintive  evening  sky,  the  eager 
morning  breeze,  the  desolated  villages,  and 
now  and  then  in  the  vast  expanse,  stretching 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles  south,  an 
oasis  as  a  gem  set  in  a  cloth  of  faded  gold. 

It  would  have  seemed  to  any  natural  man 
better  to  die  in  the  desert  than  to  live  in  Om- 
durman. So  thougiit  a  fugitive  who  fled  day 
and  night  through  the  Bayuda  desert,  into 
the  sandy  wastes,  beyond  whose  utmost  limits 
lay  Wady  Haifa,  where  the  English  were. 

Macnamara  had  conquered.  He  had  watched 
his  chance  when  two  of  the  black  guard  were 

355 


U^HE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

asleep,  and  the  Khalifa  was  in  a  stupor  of 
opium  in  the  harem,  had  looted  Abdullah's 
treasure,  and  carried  the  price  of  the  camels 
and  the  pay  of  the  guides  to  INIahommed 
Nafar  the  shoemaker. 

His  great  sprawling  camel,  the  best  that 
jNIahommed  Nafar  could  buy  of  Ebn  Haraf, 
the  sheikh  in  the  Gilif  Hills,  swung  down  the 
wind  with  a  long,  reaching  stride,  to  the  point 
where  the  sheikh  would  meet  him,  and  send 
him  on  his  Avay  with  a  guide.  If  he  reached 
the  rendezvous  safely,  there  was  a  fair  chance 
of  final  escape. 

INloonlight,  and  the  sand  swishing  from  un- 
der the  velvet  hoofs  of  the  camel,  the  silence 
like  a  filmy  cloak,  sleep  everywhere,  save  at 
the  eyes  of  the  fugitive.  Hour  after  hour 
they  sprawled  down  the  waste,  and  for  num- 
berless hours  they  must  go  on  and  on,  sleep- 
less, tireless,  alert,  if  the  man  was  to  be  saved 
at  all.  As  morning  broke  he  turned  his  eye 
here  and  there,  fearful  of  discovery  and  pur- 
suit. Nothing.  He  was  alone  witli  the  sky 
and  tlie  desert  and  liis  fiite.  Another  two 
hours  and  he  would  be  at  the  rendezvous,  in 
tlie  cover  of  the  hills,  where  he  would  be  safe 
for  a  moment  at  least.  But  he  must  keep 
a//C(i(I  oi  all  pursuit,  for  if  Abdullah's  people 
should  get  in  front  of  him  he  would  be  cut 

356 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

off  from  all  hope.  There  is  little  chance  to 
run  the  blockade  of  the  desert  where  a  man 
may  not  hide,  where  there  is  neither  water, 
nor  feed,  nor  rest,  once  in  a  hundred  miles  or 
more. 

For  an  hour  his  eyes  were  fixed,  now  on 
the  desert  behind  him,  whence  pursuit  should 
come,  now  on  the  golden-pink  hills  before 
him,  where  was  sanctuary  for  a  moment,  at 
least.  .  .  .  Nothing  in  all  the  vast  space  but 
blue  and  gray — the  sky  and  the  sand,  nothing 
that  seemed  of  the  world  he  had  left ;  nothing 
save  the  rank  smell  of  the  camel,  and  the 
Arab  song  he  sang  to  hasten  the  tired  beast's 
footsteps.  JNlahommed  Nafar  had  taught  him 
the  song,  saying  that  it  was  as  good  to  him  as 
another  camel  on  a  long  journey.  His  Ara- 
bic, touched  off  with  the  soft  brogue  of  Erin, 
made  a  little  shrill  by  weariness  and  peril,  was 
not  the  Arabic  of  Abdin  Palace,  but  yet, 
under  the  spell,  the  camel's  head  ceased  sway- 
ing nervously,  the  long  neck  stretched  out 
bravely,  and  they  came  on  together  to  the 
Gilif  Hills,  comrades  in  distress,  gallant  and 
unafraid.  .  .  .  Now  the  rider  looked  back  less 
than  before,  for  the  hills  were  near,  he  was 
crossing  a  ridge  which  would  hide  him  from 
sight  for  a  few  miles,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  on 
the  opening  in  the  range  where  a  few  dom- 
24  357 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

trees  marked  the  rendezvous.  His  throat  was 
dry,  for  before  the  night  was  half  over  he  had 
drunk  the  little  water  he  carried;  but  the 
Arab  song  still  came  from  his  lips : 

"  Doos  ya  lellee  !     Doo.s-  yn  lellee  ! 
Tread,  O  joy  of  my  life,  tread  lightly/ 
Thy  feet  are  the  wings  of  a  dove. 
And  thy  heart  is  of  fire.      On  thy  wounds 
I  Avill  pour  the  king's  salve.      I  will  hang 
On  thy  neck  the  long  chain  of  wrought  gold. 
When  the  gates  of  Bagdad  are  before  us — ■ 
Doos  ya  lellee  !     Doos  ya  lellee  !  " 

He  did  not  cease  singing  it  until  the  camel 
had  staggered  in  beneath  the  dom-trees  where 
Ebn  Mazar  waited.  IMacnamara  threw  him- 
self on  the  ground  beside  the  prostrate  camel 
which  had  carried  him  so  well,  and  gasped, 
"Water  ! "  He  drank  so  long  from  Ebn  Ha- 
rafs  water-bag  that  the  Arab  took  it  from 
him.  Then  he  lay  on  the  sands  hugging  the 
ground  close  like  a  dog,  till  the  sheikh  roused 
liim  with  the  word  that  he  must  mount  an- 
other camel,  this  time  with  a  guide,  Mah- 
moud,  a  kinsman  of  his  own,  who  must  risk 
his  life — at  a  price.  Half  the  price  was  paid 
by  JMacnamara  to  the  sheikli  before  they  left 
the  shade  of  the  palm-trees,  and,  striking 
tlirough  the  hills,  emerged  again  into  the 
desert  farther  north. 

358 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

In  the  open  waste  the  strain  and  the  peril 
began  again,  but  INIahmoud,  though  a  boy  in 
years,  was  a  man  in  wisdom  and  a  "  brother 
of  eagles "  in  endurance :  and  he  was  the 
second  Arab  who  won  JNIacnamara's  heart. 

It  was  JNIahmoud's  voice  now  that  quavered 
over  the  heads  of  the  camels  and  drove  them 
on ;  it  was  his  eye  which  watched  the  horizon. 
The  hours  went  by,  and  no  living  thing  ap- 
peared in  the  desert,  save  a  small  cloud  of 
vultures,  heavy  from  feasting  on  a  camel  dead 
in  the  waste,  and  a  dark  brown  snake  flitting 
across  their  path.  Nothing  all  day  save  these, 
and  nothing  all  the  sleepless  night,  save  a 
desert  wolf  stealing  down  the  sands.  JVIac- 
namara's  eyes  burned  in  his  head  with  weari- 
ness, his  body  became  numb,  but  Mahommed 
Mahmoud  would  allow  no  pause.  They  must 
get  so  far  ahead  the  first  two  days  that  Ab- 
dullah's pursuers  might  not  overtake  them,  he 
said.  Beyond  Dongola,  at  a  place  appointed, 
other  camels  would  await  them,  if  ^lahmoud's 
tribesmen  there  kept  faith. 

For  two  days  and  nights  INlacnamara  had 
not  slept,  for  forty-six  hours  he  had  been  con- 
stantly in  the  saddle,  but  ^lahommed  Mah- 
moud allowed  him  neither  sleep  nor  rest. 

Dongola  came  at  last,  lying  far  away  on 
their   right.      With   Dongola,    fresh    camels; 

359 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

and  the  desert  flight  began  again.  Hour  after 
hour,  and  not  a  hving  thing;  and  then,  at  last, 
a  group  of  three  Arabs  on  camels  going  south, 
far  over  to  their  right.  These  suddenly  turned 
and  rode  down  on  them. 

"We  must  fight,"  said  Mahmoud;  "for 
they  see  you  are  no  Arab." 

"  I'll  take  the  one  with  the  jibbeh,"  said 
Macnamara  coolly,  with  a  pistol  in  his  left 
hand  and  a  sw^ord  in  his  right.  "I'll  take  him 
first.  Here's  the  tap  off  yer  head,  me  dar- 
lins !  "  he  added  as  they  turned  and  faced  the 
dervishes. 

"  We  must  kill  them  all,  or  be  killed,"  said 
JMahmoud,  as  the  dervishes  suddenly  stopped, 
and  the  one  with  the  jibbeh  called  to  Mah- 
moud : 

"  AVhither  do  you  fly  with  the  white  Egyp- 
tian ? " 

"  If  you  come  and  see  you  will  know,  by 
the  mercy  of  God  !  "  answered  Malimoud. 

The  next  instant  the  dervishes  charged. 
Macnamara  marked  his  man,  and  the  man 
with  the  jibbeh  fell  from  his  camel.  Mah- 
moud fired  his  carbine,  missed,  and  closed 
with  his  enemy.  Macnamara,  late  of  the  7th 
Hussars,  swung  his  Arab  sword  as  though  it 
were  the  rcguhition  blade  and  he  in  sword 
practice  at  iMdersliot,  and  catching  the  blade 

360 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE  FLOCK 

of  his  desert  foe,  saved  his  own  neck  and  gave 
the  chance  of  a  fair  hand-to-hand  combat. 

He  met  the  swift  strokes  of  the  dervish  with 
a  cool  certainty.  His  weariness  passed  from 
him;  the  joy  of  battle  was  on  him.  He 
was  wounded  twice — in  the  shoulder  and  the 
head.  Now  he  took  the  offensive.  Once  or 
twice  he  circled  slowly  round  the  dervish, 
whose  eyes  blazed,  whose  mouth  was  foaming 
with  fury;  then  he  came  on  him  with  all  the 
knowledge  and  the  skill  he  had  got  in  little 
Indian  wars.  He  came  on  him,  and  the  der- 
vish fell,  his  head  cut  through  like  a  cheese. 

Then  IVIacnamara  turned,  to  see  Mahmoud 
and  the  third  dervish  on  the  gi'ound,  strug- 
gling in  each  other's  arms.  He  started  for- 
ward, but  before  he  could  reach  the  two, 
INIahmoud  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  reeking 
knife,  and  waved  it  in  the  air. 

"  He  was  a  kinsman,  but  he  had  to  die, " 
said  Mahmoud  as  they  mounted.  He  turned 
towards  the  bodies,  then  looked  at  the  camels 
flying  down  the  desert  towards  Dongola. 

"  It  is  as  God  wills  now,"  he  said.  "  Their 
tribesmen  will  follow  when  they  see  the  camels. 
See,  my  camel  is  wounded  ! "  he  added,  with 
a  gasp. 


361 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 


IV 

Two  days  following,  towards  evening,  two 
wounded  men  on  foot  trudged  through  the 
desert  haggard  and  bent.  The  feet  of  one — 
an  Arab — had  on  a  pair  of  red  slippers,  the 
feet  of  the  other  were  bare.  JMahmoud  and 
Macnamara  were  in  a  bad  way.  They  were 
in  very  truth  "  walking  against  time."  Their 
tongues  were  thick  in  their  mouths,  their  feet 
were  lacerated  and  bleeding,  they  carried  noth- 
ing now  save  their  pistols  and  their  swords, 
and  a  small  bag  of  dates  hanging  at  Macna- 
mara's  belt.  Prepared  for  the  worst,  they 
trudged  on  with  blind  hope,  eager  to  die  fight- 
ing if  they  must  die,  rather  than  to  perish  of 
hunger  and  thirst  in  the  desert.  Another  day, 
and  they  would  be  beyond  the  radius  of  the 
Khalifa's  power  :  but  would  they  see  another 
day? 

They  thought  that  question  answered,  when, 
out  of  the  evening  pink  and  opal  and  the 
golden  sand  beliind  tliem,  they  saw  three 
Arabs  riding.  The  friends  of  the  slain  Der- 
vishes were  come  to  take  revenge,  it  seemed. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  but  they 
did  not  try  to  speak.  JMacnamara  took  from 
his  shirt  a  bag  of  gold  and  offered  it  to  Mah- 

362 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

moud.  It  was  the  balance  of  the  payment 
promised  to  Ebn  Mazar.  Mahmoud  salaamed 
and  shook  his  head,  then  in  a  thick  voice  said : 
*'  It  is  my  life  and  thy  hfe.  If  thou  diest  I 
die.  If  thou  hvest,  the  gold  is  Ebn  Haraf's. 
At  Wady  Haifa  I  will  claim  it,  if  it  be  the 
will  of  God." 

The  words  Avere  thick  and  broken,  but  Mac- 
namara  understood  him,  and  they  turned  and 
faced  their  pursuers,  ready  for  Ufe  or  death, 
intent  to  kill — and  met  the  friends  of  Ebn 
Haraf,  who  had  been  hired  to  take  them  on 
to  Wady  Haifa!  Their  rescuers  had  been 
pursued,  and  had  made  a  detour  and  forced 
march,  thus  coming  on  them  before  the  time 
appointed.  In  three  days  more  they  were  at 
Wady  Haifa. 

Mahmoud  lived  to  take  back  to  Ebn  ^lazar 
the  other  hundred  pounds  of  the  gold  ^lac- 
namara  had  looted  from  the  Khalifa  ;  and  he 
also  took  something  for  himself  from  the  Brit- 
ish officers  at  Wady  Haifa.  For  him  nothing 
remained  of  the  desperate  journey  but  a  couple 
of  scars. 

It  was  different  with  Macnamara.  He  had 
to  take  a  longer  journey  still.  He  was  not 
glad  to  do  it,  for  he  liked  the  look  of  the  Eng- 
lish fiices  round  him,  and  he  liked  what  they 
said  to  him.     Also,  he  was  young  enough  to 

363 


THE   FLOWER   OF   THE   FLOCK 

"go  a-roaming  still,"  as  he  said  to  Henry 
Withers.  Besides,  it  sorely  hurt  liis  pride 
that  no  woman  or  child  of  his  would  be  left 
behind  to  lament  him.  Still,  when  Henry 
told  him  he  had  to  go,  he  took  it  like  a  man. 

**'Ere,  it  ain't  no  use,"  said  Henry  to  him 
the  day  he  got  to  Wady  Haifa.  "  'Ere,  old 
pal,  it  ain't  no  use.  You  'ave  to  take  your 
gruel,  an'  you  'av^e  to  take  it  alone.  What  I 
want  to  tell  yer  quiet  and  friendly,  old  pal,  is 
that  yer  drawfted  out — all  the  way  out — for 
good  ! " 

"  Sh — did  ye  think  I  wasn't  knowin'  it,  me 
b'y  ?  "  Macnamara's  face  clouded.  "Did  ye 
think  I  wasn't  knowin'  it?  Go  an'  lave  me 
alone,"  he  added  quickly. 

Henry  AVithers  went  out  pondering,  for  he 
was  sure  it  was  not  mere  dying  that  fretted 
Macnamara. 

The  next  day  the  end  of  it  all  came.  Henry 
Withers  had  pondered,  and  his  mind  was  made 
up  to  do  a  certain  thing.  Towards  evening  he 
sat  alone  in  the  room  where  Macnamara  lay 
asleep — almost  his  very  last  sleep.  All  at 
once  Macnamara's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"  Kitty,  Kitty,  me  darlin',"  he  murmured 
vaguely.     Then  he  saw  Henry  A\^ithers. 

"  I'm  dyin',"  he  said,  breathing  heavily. 
"  Don't    call    anny   one,    Hinry,"    he    added 

364 


THE   FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

brokenly.     "Dyin's    that   aisy — aisy   enough, 
but  for  wan  thing." 

"  'Ere,  speak  out,  Pete." 

"  Sure,  there's  no  wan  but  you.  Withers, 
not  a  wife  nor  a  child  av  me  own  to  say, 
'  Poor  Peter  Macnamara,  he  is  gone.'  " 

"  There's  one,"  said  Henry  Withers  firmly. 
*' There's  one,  old  pal." 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  said  JNIacnamara  huskily. 

"  Kitty." 

"  She's  no  wife,"  said  Macnamara,  shaking 
his  head.  "  Though  she'd  ha'  been  that,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  JVIary  ^lalone." 

"  She's  mine,  an'  she  'as  the  marriage  lines," 
said  Henry  AVithers.  "  An'  there's  a  kid — 
wich  ain't  mine — born  six  months  after!  'Oo 
says  no  kid  won't  remark,  '  Poor  Macnamara, 
'ee  is  gone,  wich  'ee  was  my  fader ! ' " 

Macnamara  trembled;  the  death-sweat 
dropped  from  his  forehead  as  he  raised  him- 
self up. 

"  Kitty — a  kid  av  mine — and  she  mar- 
ried to  Hinry  Withers ! — an'  you  saved  me, 
too "     Macnamara's  eyes  were  wild. 

Henry  Withers  took  his  hand. 

' '  'Ere,  it's  all  right,  old  pal,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. 

"  What's  the  kid's  name  ? "  said  INIac- 
namara. 

365 


THE   FLOWER   OF  THE  FLOCK 

"  Peter — same  as  yours." 

The  voice  was  scarce  above  a  breath. 
"  Sure,  I  didn't  know  at  all.  An'  you  forgive 
me,  Hinry  darlin',  you  forgive  me  ? " 

*'  I've  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  Henry 
Withers. 

A  smile  lighted  the  blanched  face  of  the 
dying  man.  ' '  Give  me  love  to  the  b'y — to 
Peter  Macnamara, "  he  said,  and  fell  back  with 
a  smile  on  his  face. 

"  I'd  do  it  again.  Wot's  a  lie  so  long  as  it 
does  good  ? "  said  Henry  Withers  afterwards 
to  Holgate  the  engineer.  "  But  tell  '<??' — tell 
Kitty  ?  no  fear  I  I  ain't  no  bloomin'  fool.  'E's 
'appy — that's  enough.  She'd  cut  me  'eart  out, 
if  she  knowed  I'd  lied  that  lie." 


366 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 


IMSDALE'S  prospects  had 
suddenly  ceased  by  the  pro- 
ductive marriage  of  a  rich 
*-  uncle  late  in  hfe;  and  then 
his  career  began.  He  went 
to  Egypt  at  the  time  when 
men  who  knew  things  had  their 
chance  to  do  things.  His  in- 
formation was  general  and  dis- 
cursive, but  he  had  a  real  gift 
for  science :  an  inheritance  from 
a  grandfather  who  received  a  peerage  for  ab- 
struse political  letters  written  to  the  Times  and 
lectures  before  the  Royal  Institution.  Besides, 
he  had  known  well  and  loved  inadvertently 
the  Hon.  Lucy  Gray,  who  kept  a  kind  of  so- 
cial kindergarten  for  confiding  man,  whose 
wisdom  was  as  accurate  as  her  face  was  fair, 
her  manners  simple,  and  her  tongue  demure 
and  biting. 

367 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

Egypt  offered  an  opportunity  for  a  man  like 
Dimsdale,  and  he  always  said  that  his  going 
there  was  the  one  inspiration  of  his  life.  He 
did  not  know  that  this  inspiration  came  from 
I.ucy  Gray.  She  had  purposely  thrown  liim 
m  the  way  of  General  Duncan  Pasha,  who,  mak- 
ing a  reputation  in  Egypt,  had  been  rewarded 
by  a  good  command  in  England  and  a  K.C.B. 

After  a  talk  with  the  General,  who  had 
spent  his  Egyptian  days  in  the  agreeable  strife 
with  native  premiers  and  hesitating  Khedives, 
Dimsdale  rose  elated,  with  his  mission  in  his 
hand.  x\fter  the  knock-down  blow  his  uncle 
had  given  him,  he  was  in  a  fighting  mood. 
General  Duncan's  tale  had  come  at  the  psy- 
chological moment,  and  hot  with  inspiration 
he  had  gone  straight  off  to  Lucy  Gray  with 
his  steamship  ticket  in  his  pocket,  and  told  her 
he  was  going  to  spend  his  life  in  the  service  of 
the  pasha  and  the  fellah.  When  she  asked 
him  a  little  bitingly  what  form  his  disciplined 
energy  would  take,  he  promptly  answered : 

"  Irrigation." 

She  laughed  in  his  face  softly.  "  What  do 
you  know  about  irrigation  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  can  learn  it — it's  the  game  to  play  out 
there,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  he  answered. 

"  It  doesn't  sound  distinguished,"  she  re- 
marked drily. 

368 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

Because  she  smiled  satirically  at  him,  and 
was  unresponsive  to  his  enthusiasm,  and  gave 
him  no  chance  to  tell  her  of  the  nobility  of  the 
work  in  which  he  was  going  to  put  his  hfe ;  of 
the  work  of  the  Pharaohs  in  their  day,  the  hope 
of  Napoleon  in  his,  and  the  creed  Mahomet 
Ali  held  and  practised,  that  the  Nile  was 
Egypt  and  Egypt  was  irrigation — because  of 
this  he  became  angry,  said  unkind  things, 
drew  acid  comments  upon  himself,  and  left  her 
with  a  last  good-bye.  He  did  not  reahse  that 
he  had  played  into  the  hands  of  Lucy  Gray  in 
a  very  childish  manner.  For  in  scheming  that 
he  should  go  to  Egypt  she  had  planned  also 
that  he  should  break  with  her;  for  she  never 
had  any  real  intention  of  marrying  him,  and 
yet  it  was  difficult  to  make  him  turn  his  back 
on  her,  while  at  the  same  time  she  was  too 
tender  of  his  feelings  to  turn  her  back  on  him. 
She  held  that  anger  was  the  least  injurious  of 
all  gi-ounds  for  separation.  In  anger  there 
was  no  humiliation.  There  was  something 
dignified  and  brave  about  a  quarrel,  while  a 
growing  coolness  which  must  end  in  what  the 
world  called  "jilting"'  was  humiliating.  Be- 
sides, people  who  quarrel  and  separate  may 
meet  again  and  begin  over  again :  impossible 
in  the  other  circumstance. 


369 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 


II 

In  Egypt  Dimsdale  made  a  reputation;  not 
at  once,  but  he  did  make  it.  The  first  two 
years  of  his  stay  he  had  plenty  to  do.  At  the 
end  of  the  time  he  could  have  drawn  a  map 
of  the  Nile  from  Uganda  to  the  Barrages ;  he 
knew  the  rains  in  each  district  from  the  region 
of  the  Sadds  to  the  Little  Borillos ;  there  was 
not  a  canal,  from  the  small  Bahr  Shebin  to  the 
big  Rayeh  JNIenoufieh  or  the  majestic  Ibrahi- 
mieh,  whose  slope,  mean  velocity,  and  dis- 
charge he  did  not  know;  and  he  carried  in 
his  mind  every  drainage  cut  and  contour  from 
Tamis  to  Damanhur,  from  Cairo  to  Beltim. 
He  knew  neither  amusement  nor  society,  for 
every  waking  hour  was  spent  in  the  study  of 
the  Nile  and  what  the  Nile  might  do. 

After  one  of  his  journeys  up  the  Nile, 
Imshi  Pasha,  the  Minister  of  the  Interior, 
said  to  him  :  "  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  with  whom 
be  peace  and  power,  what  have  you  seen  as 
you  travel  ? " 

*•  I  saw  a  fellah  yesterday  who  has  worked 
nine  months  on  the  corvee — six  months  for 
the  Government  and  three  for  a  pasha  the 
friend  of  the  Government.  He  supplied  his 
own  spades  and  baskets;    his  lantern  was  at 

370 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

the  service  of  the  Khedive;  he  got  his  own 
food  as  best  he  could.  He  had  one  feddan  of 
land  in  his  own  village,  but  he  had  no  time  to 
work  it  or  harvest  it.  Yet  he  had  to  pay  a 
house-tax  of  five  piastres,  a  war-tax  of  five 
piastres,  a  camel-tax  of  five  piastres,  a  palm- 
tax  of  five  piastres,  a  salt-tax  of  nine  piastres, 
a  poll-tax  of  thirty  piastres,  a  land-tax  of 
ninety  piastres.  The  canal  for  which  he  was 
taxed  gave  his  feddan  of  land  no  water,  for 
the  pasha,  the  friend  of  the  Government,  took 
all  the  water  for  his  own  land." 

Prince  Imshi  stifled  a  yawn.  "I  have 
never  seen  so  much  at  one  breath,  my  friend. 
And  having  seen,  you  feel  now  that  Egypt 
must  be  saved — eh?  " 

This  Pasha  was  an  Egyptian  of  the  Egyp- 
tians— a  Turk  of  the  Turks,  Oriental  in  mind 
with  the  polish  of  a  Frenchman.  He  did  not 
like  Dimsdale,  but  he  did  not  say  so.  He 
knew  it  was  better  to  let  a  man  have  his  fling 
and  come  a  cropper  over  his  own  work  than 
to  have  him  unoccupied,  excited,  and  trouble- 
some, especially  when  he  was  an  Englishman 
and  knew  about  what  he  was  talking.  Imshi 
Pasha  saw  that  Dimsdale  was  a  dangerous 
man,  as  all  enthusiasts  are,  no  matter  how 
right-headed;  but  it  comforted  him  to  think 
that  many  a  reformer,  from  Amenhotep  down, 

371 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

had,  as  it  were,  cut  his  own  throat  in  the  Irri- 
gation Department.  Some  had  tried  to  dis- 
tribute water  fairly,  efficiently,  and  scientifical- 
ly, but  most  of  them  had  got  lost  in  the 
underbrush  of  officialdom,  and  never  got  out 
of  the  wood  again.  This  wood  is  called  Back- 
sheesh. Reformers  Hke  Dimsdale  had  drawn 
straight  lines  of  purpose  for  the  salvation  of 
the  country,  and  they  had  seen  these  straight 
lines  go  crooked  under  their  very  eyes,  with  a 
devilish  smoothness.  Therefore  Imshi  Pasha, 
being  a  wise  man  and  a  deep-dyed  official  who 
had  never  yet  seen  the  triumph  of  the  reformer 
and  the  honest  Aryan,  took  Dimsdale's  hands 
and  said  suddenly,  with  a  sorrowful  break  in 
his  voice : 

"Ah,  my  friend,  to  tell  the  whole  truth  as 
God  gives  it,  it  is  time  you  have  come. 
Egypt  has  waited  for  you — the  man  who  sees 
and  knows.  I  have  watched  you  for  two 
years.  I  have  waited,  but  now  the  time  is 
ripe.  You  shall  stretch  your  arm  over  Egypt 
and  it  will  rise  to  you.  You  shall  have  paper 
for  plans,  and  men  and  money  for  travel  and 
works — cuttings,  and  pumps,  and  sand-bags 
for  banks  and  barrages.  You  shall  be  second 
in  your  department — but  first  in  fiict,  for 
shall  not  I,  your  friend,  be  your  chief?  And 
you  shall  say  '  Go  there,'  and  tliey  shall  go, 

372 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

and  *  Come  here,*  and  they  shall  come.  For 
my  soul  is  with  you  for  Egypt,  O  friend  of 
the  fellah  and  saviour  of  the  land.  Have  I 
not  heard  of  the  great  reservoirs  you  would 
make  in  the  Fayoum,  of  the  great  dam  at  As- 
souan ?  Have  I  not  heard,  and  waited,  and 
watched  ?  and  now  ..." 

He  paused  and  touched  his  breast  and  his 
forehead  in  respect. 

Dimsdale  was  well-nigh  taken  off  his  feet. 
It  seemed  too  wonderful  to  be  true  :  a  free 
hand  in  Egypt,  and  under  Imshi  Pasha,  the 
one  able  JNIinister  of  them  all,  who  had,  it 
was  said,  always  before  resisted  the  irrigation 
schemes  of  the  foreigners,  who  beUeved  only 
in  the  corvee  and  fate  ! 

Dimsdale  rejoiced  that  at  the  beginning  of 
his  career  he  had  so  inspired  the  powerful  one 
with  confidence.  With  something  very  like 
emotion  he  thanked  the  ^linister. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,"  answered  the  Pasha, 
"  the  love  of  Egypt  has  helped  us  to  under- 
stand each  other.  And  we  shall  know  each 
other  better  still  by-and-by — by-and-by.  .  .  . 
You  shall  be  gazetted  to-morrow.  Allah  pre- 
serve you  from  all  error  I " 


25  373 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 


III 

This  began  the  second  period  of  Dimsdale's 
career.  As  he  went  forth  from  Cairo  up  the 
Nile  witli  great  designs  in  his  mind,  and  an 
approving  JNIinistry  behind  him,  he  had  the 
feehng  of  a  hunter  with  a  sure  quarry  before 
him.  Now  he  remembered  Lucy  Gray;  and 
he  flushed  with  a  dehghtful  and  victorious  in- 
dignation remembering  his  last  hour  with  her. 
He  even  sentimentally  recalled  a  song  he  once 
wrote  for  her  sympathetic  voice.  The  song 
was  called  "  No  Man's  Land."  He  recited 
two  of  the  verses  to  himself  now,  with  a  kind 
of  unction : 

"  And  we  have  wandered  far,  my  dear,  and  we  have  loved 
apace ; 
A  Httle  hut  we  built  upon  the  sand  ; 
The  sun  without  to  brighten  it — within  your   golden 
face  : 
O  happy  dream,  O  happy  No  Man's  Land  I 

"  The  pleasant  furniture  of  spring  was  set  in  all  the  fields. 
And  sweet  and  wholesome  all  the  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Our  simple  cloth,  my  dear,  was  spread  with  all  the  or- 
chard yields. 
And  frugal  only  were  the  passing  hours." 

A  wave  of  feeling  passed   over  him  sud- 
denly.    Those  verses  were  youth,  and  youth 

374 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

was  gone,  with  all  its  flushed  and  spirited  dal- 
liance and  reckless  expenditure  of  feeling. 
Youth  was  behind  him,  and  love  was  none  of 
his,  nor  any  cares  of  home,  nor  wife  nor  chil- 
dren; nothing  but  ambition  now,  and  the 
vanity  of  successful  labour. 

Sitting  on  the  deck  of  the  Scfi  at  El  Wasta, 
he  looked  round  him.  In  the  far  distance  was 
the  Maydoum  Pyramid,  "the  Imperfect  One," 
unexplored  by  man  these  thousands  of  years, 
and  all  around  it  the  soft  yellowish  desert, 
with  a  mirage  quivering  over  it  in  the  distance, 
a  mirage  of  trees  and  water  and  green  hills. 
A  caravan  lounged  its  way  slowly  into  the 
waste.  At  the  waterside,  here  and  there  de- 
vout Mahommedans  were  saying  their  prayers, 
now  standing,  now  bowing  towards  the  east, 
now  kneeling  and  touching  the  ground  with  the 
forehead.  Then,  piercing  and  painfully  musi- 
cal, came  the  call  of  the  muezzin  from  the 
turret  of  the  mosque  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
Near  by  the  fellah  worked  in  his  onion-field ; 
and  on  the  khiassas  loaded  with  feddan  at  the 
shore,  just  out  of  the  current,  and  tied  up  for 
the  night,  sat  the  riverine  folk  eating  their 
dourha  and  drinking  black  coffee.  Now  Dims- 
dale  noticed  that,  nearer  still,  just  below  the 
Sefi,  on  the  shore,  sat  a  singing- girl,  an  a'l'meh, 
with  a  dark-faced  Arab  beside  her,  a  kemengeh 

375 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

in  his  lap.  Looking  down,  Dimsdale  caught 
their  eyes,  nodded  to  them,  and  the  singing- 
girl  and  the  kemengeh-player  got  to  their  feet 
and  salaamed.  The  girl's  face  was  in  the  light 
cf  evening.  Her  dark  skin  took  on  a  curious 
reddish  radiance,  her  eyes  were  lustrous  and 
her  figure  beautiful.  The  kemengeh-player 
stood  with  his  instrument  ready,  and  he  lifted 
it  in  a  kind  of  appeal.  Dimsdale  beckoned 
them  up  on  deck.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  he 
asked  the  a'l'meh  to  sing.  Her  voice  had  the 
curious  vibrant  note  of  the  Arab,  and  the 
words  were  in  singular  sympathy  with  Dims- 
dale's  thoughts : 

"  I  have  a  journey  to  make,  and  perils  are  in  hiding, 
Many  moons  must  I  travel,  many  foes  meet ; 
A  morsel  of  bread  my  food,  a  goolah  of  water  for  drink- 

Desert  sand  for  my  bed,  the  moonlight  my  sheet.  .  . 
Come,  my  love,  to  the  scented  palms  : 
Behold,  the  hour  of  remembrance  !  " 

For  the  moment  Dimsdale  ceased  to  be  the 
practical  scientist — he  was  all  sentimentalist. 
He  gave  himself  the  luxury  of  retrospection, 
he  enjoyed  languorous  moment;  tlie  music, 
the  voice,  the  tinkle  of  the  tambourine,  the 
girl  herself,  sinuous,  sensuous.  It  struck  him 
that  he  had  never  seen  an  aTmeh  so  cleanly 
and  so  finely  dressed,  so  graceful,  so  delicate 

376 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

in  manner.  It  struck  him  also  that  the  ke- 
mengeh-player  was  a  better-class  Arab  than  he 
had  ever  met.  The  man's  face  attracted  him, 
fascinated  him.  As  he  looked  it  seemed  femil- 
iar.  He  studied  it,  he  racked  his  brain  to  re- 
call it.  Suddenly  he  remembered  that  it  was 
like  the  face  of  a  servant  of  Imshi  Pasha — a 
kind  of  moufFetish  of  his  household.  Now  he 
studied  the  girl.  He  had  never  seen  her  be- 
fore ;  of  that  he  was  sure.  He  ordered  them 
coffee,  and  handed  the  girl  a  gold-piece.  As 
he  did  so,  he  noticed  that  among  several  paste 
rings  she  wore  one  of  value.  All  at  once  the 
suspicion  struck  him:  Imshi  Pasha  had  sent 
the  girl — to  try  him  perhaps,  to  gain  power 
over  him  maybe,  as  women  had  gained  power 
over  strong  men  before.  But  why  should 
Imshi  Pasha  send  the  girl  and  his  moufFetish 
on  this  miserable  mission  ?  Was  not  Imshi 
Pasha  his  friend  ? 

Quietly  smoking  his  cigarette,  he  said  to  the 
man:  "You  may  go,  Mahommed  ^lehk;  I 
have  had  enough.  Take  your  harem  with 
you,"  he  added  quickly. 

Tlie  man  scarcely  stirred  a  muscle,  the 
woman  flushed  deeply. 

"  So  be  it,  effendi,"  answered  the  man,  ris- 
ing unmoved,  for  his  sort  know  not  shame. 
He  beckoned  to  the  girl.     For  an  instant  she 

377 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

stood  hesitating,  tlien  with  sudden  fury  she 
threw  on  the  table  beside  him  the  gold-piece 
Dimsdale  had  given  her. 

^^Magnoonf'  she  said,  with  blazing  eyes, 
and  ran  after  the  man. 

"  I  may  be  a  fool,  my  dear,"  he  said  after 
her;  "but  you  might  say  the  same  of  the 
pasha  who  sent  you  here." 

Dimsdale  was  angry  for  a  moment,  and  he 
said  some  hard  words  of  Imshi  Pasha  as  he 
watched  the  two  decoys  hurry  away  into  the 
dusk.  He  thought  it  nothing  more  serious 
than  an  attempt  to  know  of  what  stuff  he  was 
made.  He  went  to  bed  with  dreams  of  vast 
new  areas  watered  for  summer  rice,  of  pump- 
ing-stations  lifting  millions  of  cubic  metres  of 
water  per  day;  of  dykes  to  be  protected  by 
buh'ushes  and  birriya  weeds;  of  great  desert 
areas  washed  free  of  carbonates  and  sulphates 
and  selling  at  twenty  pounds  an  acre ;  of  a 
green  Egypt  with  three  crops,  and  himself  the 
Regenerator,  the  Friend  of  the  Fellah. 

In  this  way  he  soon  forgot  that  lie  had  re- 
membered Lucy  Gray,  and  the  incident  of 
the  girl  ceased  to  trouble.  His  progress  up 
the  river,  however,  was  marked  by  incidents 
whose  significance  he  did  not  at  once  see. 
Everywhere  his  steamer  stopped  people  came 
with  backsheesh  in  the  shape  of  butter,  cream, 

378 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

flour,  eggs,  fowls,  cloths,  and  a  myriad  things. 
Jewels  from  mummy  cases,  antichi,  donkeys, 
were  offered  him:  all  of  which  he  steadfastly 
refused,  sometimes  with  contumely.  Officials 
besought  his  services  with  indelicate  bribes, 
and  by  devious  hospitalities  and  attentions 
more  than  one  governor  sought  to  bring  his 
projects  for  irrigation  in  line  with  their  o\\ti 
particular  duplicities. 

*' Behold,  effendi,"  said  one  to  whom  Dims- 
dale's  honesty  was  monstrous,  "may  God  pre- 
serve you  fi-om  harm — the  thing  has  not  been 
known,  that  all  men  shall  fare  ahke.  It  is 
not  the  will  of  God." 

**  It  is  the  will  of  God  that  water  shall  be 
distributed  as  I  am  going  to  distribute  it ;  and 
that  is,  according  to  every  man's  just  claim," 
answered  Dimsdale  stubbornly,  and  he  did  not 
understand  the  vague  smile  which  met  his 
remark. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  reahse  that  his 
plans  approved  by  Imshi  Pasha,  were  con- 
stantly coming  to  naught;  that  after  three 
years'  work,  and  extensive  invention  and 
travel,  and  long  reports  to  the  Ministry,  and 
encouragement  on  paper,  he  had  accomplished 
nothing ;  and  that  he  had  no  money  witli 
which  to  accomplish  anything.  Day  in,  day 
out,  week  in,  week  out,  month  in,  month  out, 

379 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

when  the  whole  land  lay  sweltering  with  the 
moist  heat  of  flood-time,  in  the  period  of  the 
khamsin,  in  the  dry  heat  which  turned  the 
hair  gray  and  chapped  the  skin  like  a  bitter 
wind,  he  slaved  and  schemed,  the  unconquer- 
able enthusiast,  who  built  houses  which  im- 
mediately fell  down. 

Fifty  times  his  schemes  seemed  marching 
to  fulfilment;  but  something  always  inter- 
vened. He  wrote  reams  of  protest,  he  made 
many  arid  journeys  to  Cairo,  he  talked  him- 
self hoarse ;  and  always  he  was  met  by  the 
sympathetic  smihng  of  Imshi  Pasha,  by  his 
encouraging  approval. 

"Ah,  my  dear  friend,  may  Heaven  smooth 
your  path  !  It  is  coming  riglit.  All  will  be 
well.  Time  is  man's  friend.  The  dam  shall 
be  built.  The  reservoirs  shall  be  made.  But 
we  are  in  the  hands  of  the  nations.  Poor 
Egypt  cannot  act  alone — our  Egypt  that  we 
love,  'i'he  Council  sits  to-morrow — we  shall 
see."  This  was  the  fashion  of  the  Pasha's 
speech. 

After  the  sitting  of  the  Council,  Dimsdale 
would  be  sent  away  with  unfruitful  promises. 

Futility  was  written  over  the  Temple  of 
Endeavour,  and  by-and-by  Dimsdale  lost  hope 
and  health  and  heart.  He  had  Nilotic  fever, 
he  had  ophthalmia;  and  hot  with  indomitable 

380 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

will,  he  had  striven  to  save  one  great  basin 
from  destruction,  for  one  whole  week,  with- 
out sleeping  or  resting  night  and  day :  work- 
ing like  a  navvy,  sleeping  like  a  fellah,  eating 
like  a  Bedouin. 

Then  the  end  came.  He  was  stricken 
down,  and  lay  above  Assouan  in  a  hut  by  the 
shore,  from  which  he  could  see  the  Temple  of 
Phil^e,  and  Pharaoh's  Bed,  and  the  gi-eat  rocks, 
and  the  swift-flowing  Nile.  Here  lay  his  great- 
est hope,  the  splendid  design  of  his  life — the 
great  barrage  of  Assouan.  With  it  lie  could 
add  to  the  wealth  of  Egypt  one-half  He 
had  believed  in  it,  had  worked  for  it  and  how 
much  else!  and  his  dreams  and  his  working 
had  come  to  naught.  He  was  sick  to  death — 
not  with  illness  alone,  but  with  disappointment 
and  broken  hopes  and  a  burden  beyond  the 
powers  of  any  one  man. 

He  saw  all  now :  all  the  falseliood  and 
treachery  and  corruption.  He  realised  that 
Imshi  Pasha  had  given  him  his  hand  that  he 
might  ruin  himself,  that  his  own  schemes 
might  overwhelm  him  in  the  end.  At  every 
turn  lie  had  been  frustrated — by  Imshi  Pasha: 
three  years  of  underground  circumvention, 
with  a  superficial  approval  and  a  mock  sup- 
port. 

He  lay  and  looked  at  the  glow,  the  sunset 
381 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

glow  of  pink  and  gold  on  the  Libyan  Hills, 
and  his  fevered  eyes  scarcely  saw  them ;  they 
were  only  a  part  of  this  last  helpless,  senseless 
dream.  Life  itself  was  very  far  away — prac- 
tical, generous,  hot-blooded  life.  This  dis- 
tance was  so  ample  and  full  and  quiet,  this 
mysteiy  of  the  desert  and  the  sky  was  so  im- 
mense, the  spirit  of  it  so  boundless,  that  in  the 
judgment  of  his  soul  nothing  mattered  now. 
As  he  lay  in  reverie,  he  heard  his  servant 
talking:  it  was  the  tale  of  the  INIahdi  and 
British  valour  and  hopeless  fighting,  and  a  red 
martyrdom  set  like  a  fixed  star  in  a  sunless 
sky.  What  did  it  matter — what  did  it  all 
matter,  in  this  grave  tremendous  quiet  wherein 
his  soul  was  hasting  on? 

The  voices  receded ;  he  was  alone  witli  the 
immeasurable  world  ;  he  fell  asleep. 


IV 


When  he  woke  again  it  was  to  find  at  his  bed- 
side a  kavass  from  Imshi  Pasha  at  Cairo.  He 
shrank  inwardly.  The  thought  of  the  Pasha 
merely  nauseated  him,  but  to  the  kavass  he 
said  :  "  AVhat  do  you  want,  Mahommed  ?  " 

The  kavass  smiled  ;  his  look  was  agreeably 
mysterious,  his  manner  luimbly  confidential, 
his  tongue  officially  deliberate. 

382 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

"  Effendina  chdk  ijaslta — JNIay  the  great  lord 
live  for  ever  !     I  bring  good  news." 

"  Leave  of  absence,  eh  ?  " — answered  Dims- 
dale  feebly,  yet  ironically ;  for  that  was  the 
thing  he  expected  now  of  the  Minister,  who 
had  played  him  like  a  ball  on  a  racquet  these 
three  years  past. 

The  kavass  handed  him  a  huge  blue  en- 
velope, salaaming  impressively. 

"  JNIay  my  life  be  thy  sacrifice,  effendi,"  he 
said,  and  salaamed  again.  "  It  is  my  joy  to 
be  near  you." 

"  We  have  tasted  your  absence  and  found 
it  bitter,  Mahommed,"  Dimsdale  answered  in 
kind,  with  a  touch  of  plaintive  humour,  let- 
ting the  envelope  fell  from  his  fingers  on  the 
bed,  so  little  was  he  interested  in  any  fresh 
move  of  Imshi  Pasha.  "  INIore  tricks,"  he  said 
to  himself  between  his  teeth. 

"  Shall  I  open  it,  effendi  ?  It  is  the  word 
that  thy  life  shall  carry  large  plumes." 

"What  a  blitherer  you  are,  Mahommed! 
Rip  it  open  and  let's  have  it  over." 

The  kavass  handed  him  a  large  letter, 
pedantically  and  rhetorically  written ;  and 
Dimsdale,  scarce  glancing  at  it,  sleepily  said  : 
"Read  it  out,  Mahommed.  Skip  the  flum- 
mery in  it,  if  you  know  liow. " 

Two  minutes  later  Dimsdale  sat  up  aghast 
383 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

with  a  surprise  that  made  his  heart  thump 
painfully,  made  his  head  go  round.  For  the 
letter  conveyed  to  him  the  fact  that  there  had 
been  placed  to  the  credit  of  his  department, 
subject  to  his  own  disposal  for  irrigation  works, 
the  sum  of  eight  hundred  thousand  pounds  ; 
and  appended  was  the  copy  of  a  letter  from 
the  Caisse  de  la  Dette  gi'anting  three- fourths 
of  this  sum,  and  authorising  its  expenditure. 
Added  to  all  was  a  short  scrawl  from  Imshi 
Pasha  himself,  beginning,  "  God  is  w^ith  the 
patient,  my  dear  friend,"  and  ending  with  the 
remarkable  statement :  "  InsJiallahi  we  shall 
now  reap  the  reward  of  our  labours  in  seeing 
these  great  works  accomplished  at  last,  in  spite 
of  the  suffering  thrust  upon  us  by  our  enemies 
— to  whom  perdition  come." 

Eight  hundred  thousand  pounds  I 

In  a  week  Dimsdale  was  at  work  again.  In 
another  month  he  was  at  Cairo,  and  the  night 
after  his  arrival  he  attended  a  ball  at  the 
Khedive's  Palace.  To  Fielding  Bey  he  poured 
out  the  wonder  of  his  soul  at  the  chance  that 
had  been  given  him  at  last.  He  seemed  to 
tliink  it  was  his  own  indomitable  patience, 
the  work  that  he  liad  done,  and  his  reports, 
whicli  liad  at  last  shamed  the  Egyptian  Gov- 
ernment  and    tlie    Caisse   de   la   Dette   into 

384 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

doing  the  right  thing  for  the  country  and  to 
him. 

He  was  dumfounded  when  Fielding  rephed  : 
"  Not  much,  my  Behsarius.  As  Imshi  Pasha 
always  was,  so  Jie  will  be  to  the  end.  It 
wasn't  Imshi  Pasha,  and  it  wasn't  English  in- 
fluence, and  it  wasn't  the  Caisse  de  la  Dette, 
each  by  its  lonesome,  or  all  together  by  initia- 
tive." 

"What  was  it — who  was  it,  then?"  said 
Dimsdale  breathlessly.  "  Was  it  you  ?  —  I 
know  you've  worked  for  me.  It  wasn't  back- 
sheesh anyhow.  But  Imshi  Pasha  didn't  turn 
honest  and  patriotic  for  nothing — I  know  that." 

Fielding,  who  had  known  him  all  his  life, 
looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  in  a  far-away  sort  of  voice,  made  recita- 
tive : 

"  '  Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray  ; 
And  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  clianced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  sohtary  child.'  " 

Dimsdale  gasped.  "  Lucy  Gray  ! "  he  said 
falteringly. 

Fielding  nodded.  "You  didn't  know,  of 
course.  She's  been  here  for  six  months — has 
more  influence  than  the  whole  diplomatic 
corps.  Twists  old  Imshi  Pasha  round  her  lit- 
tle finger.     She  has  played  your  game  hand- 

385 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

somely — I've  been  in  her  confidence.  Words- 
worth was  wrong  when  he  wrote  : 

*  No  mate^  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor  : 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ' — ■ — 

For  my  wife's  been  her  comrade.  And  her 
mate — would  you  hke  to  know  her  mate? — 
she's  married,  you  know." 

Dimsdale's  face  was  pale.  He  was  about  to 
reply,  when  a  lady  came  into  view,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  an  Agency  Secretary.  x\t  first  she 
did  not  see  Dimsdale,  then  within  a  foot  or 
two  of  him  she  suddenly  stopped.  The  Secre- 
tary felt  her  hand  twitch  on  his  arm ;  then  she 
clenched  the  fingers  firmly  on  her  fan. 

"  Ah,  Dimsdale,"  Fielding  said,  "  you  must 
let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  St.  John." 

Dimsdale  behaved  very  well,  the  lady  per- 
fectly.    She  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him. 

"  \V^e  are  old,  old  friends,  Mr.  Dimsdale  and 
I.  I  have  kept  the  next  dance  for  him,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Fielding,  who  smiled  placidly 
and  left  with  the  Secretary. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  she 
said  quietly:  "  I^et  me  congratulate  you  on 
all  you  have  done.  Everybody  is  talking 
about  you.     They  say  it  is  wonderful  how  you 

386 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

have  made  things  come  your  way.  ...  I  am 
very,  very  glad." 

Dimsdale  was  stubborn  and  indignant  and 
anything  a  man  can  be  whose  amour  propre 
has  had  a  shock. 

"  I  know  all,"  he  said  bluntly.  "  I  know 
what  you've  done  for  me." 

' '  \\^ell,  are  you  as  sorry  I  did  it  as  I  am  to 
know  you  know  it  ?  "  she  asked,  just  a  little 
faintly,  for  she  had  her  own  sort  of  heart,  and  it 
worked  in  its  own  sort  of  way. 

"  Why  this  sudden  interest  in  my  affairs  ? 
You  laughed  at  me  when  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  to  Egypt." 

"That  was  to  your  face.  I  sent  you  to 
Egypt." 

"  You  sent  me  ?  " 

"  I  made  old  General  Duncan  talk  to  you. 
The  inspiration  was  mine.  I  also  -WTote  to 
Fielding  Pasha — and  at  last  he  wrote  to  me 
to  come." 

"  You— why '* 

"I  know  more  about  irrigation  than  any 
one  in  England,"  she  continued  illogically. 
"I've  studied  it.  I  have  all  your  reports. 
That's  why  I  could  help  you  here.  They  saw 
I  knew'' 

Dimsdale  shook  a  little.  "  I  didn't  under- 
stand," he  said. 

387 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

"  You  don't  know  my  husband,  I  think," 
she  added,  rising  slowly.  "  He  is  coming  yon- 
der with  Imshi  Pasha." 

"  I  know  of  him  as  a — millionaire,"  he  an- 
swered in  a  tone  of  mingled  emotions. 

'*  I  must  introduce  you,"  she  said,  and  seemed 
to  make  an  effort  to  hold  herself  firmly.  "  He 
will  have  great  power  here.  Come  and  see 
me  to-morrow,"  she  added  in  an  even  voice. 
"  Please  come — Harry." 

In  another  minute  Dimsdale  heard  the 
great  financier  ]\Ir.  St.  John  say  that  the  name 
of  Dimsdale  would  be  for  ever  honoured  in 
Egypt. 


GLOSSARY 

Jiwa,  effendi — Yes,  noble  sir. 

Allah — God. 

Allah-hall/  ''m  alla-hahj — A  singsong  of  river-workers. 

Allah  Kerim — God  is  bountiful. 

Alldku  Akbar — God  is  most  Great. 

ATmeh — Female   professional   singers,    signifying    "a 

learned  female." 
A  nt'ichi — Antiquities. 

Backsheesh — Tip,  douceur,  bribe. 

Bala-ss — Earthen  vessel  for  carrying  water. 

Basha — Pasha. 

Bersim — Grass. 

Bimbash  i — Maj  or. 

Bishareen — A  native  tribe. 

Bismallah — In  the  name  of  God. 

Bowab — A  doorkeeper. 

Corvee — Forced  labour. 

Dahabeah — A  Nile  houseboat  with  large  lateen  sails. 
Darahulckeh — A  drum  made  of  a  skin  stretched  over  an 

earthenware  funnel. 
Doash — (Literally)  Treading.     A  ceremony  performed 

on  the  return  of  the  Holy  Carpet  from  Mecca. 
Dourha — Maize. 

26  389 


GLOSSARY 

Effemlina — Highness. 

El  aadah — The  ordinary. 

El  Azhar — The  Arab  University  at  Cairo. 

Pantasia — Celebration  with  music,  dancing  and  pro- 
cessions. 

Farshoot — The  name  of  a  native  tribe. 

Fatihah — Tlie  opening  chapter  of  the  Koran,  recited  at 
Aveddings,  &c, 

Feddan — The  most  common  measure  of  land — a  little 
less  than  an  acre. 

Fellah^  (P\n.)  Fellaheen — The  Egyptian  peasant. 

Felucca — A  small  boat,  propelled  by  oars  or  sails. 

Fessikh — Salted  fish. 

Ghaffirs — Humble  village  officials. 

GJuixvazee — The  tribe  of  public  dancing-girls.  A  female 
of  this  tril)e  is  called  "  Ghazeeyeh,"  and  a  man 
"  Ghazee,"  but  the  plural  Ghawazee  is  generally 
understood  as  applying  to  the  female. 

Ghimah — The  Mahonunedan  Sunday. 

Gippy — Colloquial  name  for  an  Egyptian  soldier. 

Goolah — Porous  water-jar  of  Nile  mud. 

Hakim — Doctor. 
Harwiiti — Fu neral  at tcndan ts. 
Hari-kari — An  Oriental  form  of  suicide. 
Ha.sJmh — Leaves  of  hemp. 

Inshallah — God  willing. 

Jihheh — Long  coat  or  smock,  worn  by  dervishes. 

390 


GLOSSARY 

Knvass — An  orderly. 

Kemengeh — A  cocoanut  fiddle. 

Klmmsin — A  hot  wind  of  Egypt  and  the  Soudan. 

Khedive — The  title  gi-anted  in  1867  by  the  Sultan  of 

Turkey  to  the  ruler  of  Egypt. 
Khiassa — Small  boat, 
Khoxvagah — Gentleman . 

Koran — The  Scriptm-es  of  the  Mahommedans. 
Kourbash — A  stick,  a  whip. 

La  ildha  illa-lldh — There  is  no  deity  but  God. 

Majish — Nothing. 

Magnoon — Fool. 

Malaish — No  matter. 

Marnour — A  magistrate. 

Mankalah — A  game. 

Mastaba — A  bench. 

Mejidieh — A  Turkish  Order. 

MirJcaz — District. 

Mogha^sils — Washers  of  the  dead. 

Moiiffetish — High  steward. 

Mudir — A  Governor  of  a  Mudirieh  or  province. 

Muezzin — The  sheikh  of  the  mosque  who  calls  to  prayer. 

Mushrahieh — Lattice  window. 

Naboot — Quarter  staff. 

Narghileh — The  Oriental  tobacco-pipe. 

Nehar-ak  Jcoom  said — Greeting  to  you. 

Omdali — The  head  of  a  village. 
Ooster — One  of  the  best  sort. 

391 


GLOSSARY 

Uainaddn — Mahonimedan  season  of  fasting. 
Riis—V'\\oi. 

Saadat  el  basha — Excellency. 

Saw — Groom. 

iSakk'ia — Persian  water-wheel. 

Salaam — A  salutation  of  the  East ;  an  obeisance,  per- 
formed by  bowing  very  low  and  placing  the  right 
palm  on  the  forehead  and  on  the  breast. 

Sarrqf- — An  accountant. 

SJuuloof — Bucket  and  pole  used  by  natives  for  lifting 
water. 

Shaer — A  reciter.  (The  singular  of  Sho"'ara,  properly 
signifying  a  poet.) 

Sheikh-el-beled — Head  of  a  village. 

Shintiyan — Very  wide  trousers,  worn  by  the  wom6n  of 
the  middle  and  higher  orders. 

Sitt—''  The  Lady." 

Tarah — A  veil  for  the  head. 
Tarboosh — Fez  or  native  turban. 

Ulema — Learned  men. 

Waled — A  boy. 

Welceel — A  deputy. 

Welee — A  favourite  of  Heaven  ;  colloquially  a  saint. 

Yashmak — A  veil  for  the  lower  part  of  the  face. 
Yelek — A  long  vest  or  smock,  worn  over  the  shirt  and 
shintiyan. 

Zeriha — A  palisade. 


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